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ANNALS  OF 


A  QUIET  NEIGHBOURHOOD 


By  GEORGE  MACDONALD,  LL.D. 


GEORGE   ROUTLEDGE   AND   SONS 

NEW  YORK:  416  BROOME  STREET 

1874 


71- 


=K 


CONTENTS. 


I.    DF.SPONnENCY  AND  CONSOLATION,  , 

H.    MY  FIRST  SUNDAY  AT  MARSH  MALLOWS, 

HI.    MY  FIRST  MONDAY  AT  MARSHMALI.OWS, 

IV    THE  Coffin 

V.    VISITORS  FROM  THE  HALL, 
VI     O'.DCASTLK  HALL,     . 
VIL    THE  bishop's  BASIN, 
Vin.    WHAT  I  PREACHED,  .  . 

IX.   THE  ORGANIST,  .  .  . 

X.    MY  CHRISTMAS  PARTY,      . 
XL    SERMON  ON  GOD  AND  .MAM.MON, 
XII.   THE  AVENUE,  ,  .  .  . 

XIII.  YOUNG  WEIR,   ..... 

XIV.  MY  rupii 

XV.  DR  Duncan's  story,       .        • 

XVI.    THE  ORGAN 

XVII.   THE  CHURCH-RATK, 


f.km 
I 

18 

25 
40 

54 
6S 

9» 
127 

^3$ 
169 
190 

233 
244 
287 
303 

334 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

XVIII.   JUDY'S  NEWS, 
XIX.   THE  INVALID, 
XX.    MOOD  AND  VVIIX, 
XXI.    THE  DEVIL  IN  THOMAS  WEIR, 
XXll.   THE  DEVIL  IN  CATHERINE  WEIR, 

XXIII.  THE  DEVIL  IN  THE  VICAR, 

XXIV.  AN  ANGEL  UNAWARES, 
XXV.  TWO  PARISHIONERS,       . 

XXVI.   SATAN  CAST  OUT,  . 
XXVII.   THE  MAN  AND  THE  CHII,D, 
KXVIII.    OLD  MRS  TOMKINS, 
XXIX,   CALM  AND  STORM,  . 

XXX.    A  SERMON  TO  MYSELF, 
XXXI.  A  COUNCIL  OF  FRIENDS, 
XXXII.   THE  NEXT  THING, 
XXXIII.  OLD  ROGERS'S  IHANKSGIVINO, 
IXXIV.   TOM'S  STORY,  •  .  . 


fAGB 

351 
360 

lis 

396 
412 

425 
434 
447 
464 

477 
496 
509 
5.^0 

544 
558 
568 


ANNALS  OF 
A  QUIET   NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


-CHAPTER  L 

DESPONDENCY  AND  CONSOLATION. 

^EFORE  I  begin  to  tell  you  some  of  the  things 
I  have  seen  and  heard,  in  both  of  which  I 
have  had  to  take  a  share,  now  from  the  com- 
pulsion of  my  office,  now  from  the  leading 
of  my  own  heart,  and  now  from  that  destiny  which,  in- 
cluding both,  so  often  throws  the  man  who  supposed 
himself  a  mere  on-looker,  into  the  very  vortex  of  events — 
that  destiny  which  took  form  to  the  old  pagans  as  a  gray 
mist  high  beyond  the  heads  of  their  gods,  but  to  us  is 
known  as  an  infinite  love,  revealed  in  the  mystery  of 
man — I  say  before  I  begin,  it  is  fitting  that,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  a  common  friend  to  do  that  office  for  me,  I 
should  introduce  myself  to  your  acquaintance,  and  I 
hope  coming  friendship.  Nor  can  there  be  any  impro- 
priety in  my  telling  you  about  myself,  seeing  I  remain 


ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


concealed  behind  my  own  words.  You  can  never  look 
me  in  the  eyes,  though  you  may  look  me  in  the  soul. 
You  may  find  me  out,  find  my  faults,  my  vanities,  my 
sins,  but  you  will  not  see  me,  at  least  in  this  world.  To 
you  I  am  but  a  voice  of  revealing,  not  a  form  of  vision  ; 
therefore  I  am  bold  behind  the  mask,  to  speak  to  you 
heart  to  heart ;  bold,  I  say,  just  so  fijuch  the  more  that 
I  do  not  speak  to  you  face  to  face.  And  when  we  meet 
in  heaven  — well,  there  I  know  there  is  no  hiding ;  there, 
there  is  no  reason  for  hiding  anything ;  there,  the  whole 
desire  will  be  alternate  revelation  and  vision. 

I  am  now  getting  old — faster  and  faster.  I  cannot 
help  my  gray  hairs,  nor  the  wrinkles  that  gather  so  slowly 
yet  ruthlessly  3  no,  nor  the  quaver  that  will  come  in  iny 
voice,  nor  the  sense  of  being  feeble  in  the  knees,  even 
when  I  walk  only  across  the  floor  of  my  study.  But  I 
have  not  got  used  to  age  yet.  I  do  not  feel  one  atom 
older  than  I  did  at  three-and- twenty.  Nay,  to  tell  all 
the  truth,  I  feel  a  good  deal  younger. — For  then  I  only 
felt  that  a  man  had  to  take  up  his  cross ;  whereas  now  I 
feel  that  a  man  has  to  follow  Him ;  and  that  makes  an 
unspeakable  difference. — When  my  voice  quavers,  I  feel 
that  it  is  mine  and  not  mine ;  that  it  just  belongs  to  me 
like  my  watch,  which  does  not  go  well  now,  though  it 
went  well  thirty  years  ago — not  more  than  a  minute  out 
in  a  month.  And  when  I  feel  my  knees  shake,  I  think 
of  them  with  a  kind  of  pity,  as  I  used  to  think  of  an  old 
mare  of  my  father's  of  which  I  was  very  fond  when  \  was 
a  lad,  and  which  bore  me  across  many  a  field  and  over 
many  a  fence,  but  which  at  last  came  to  have  the  same 


I 


DESPONDENCY   AND   CONSOLATION. 


weakness  in  her  knees  that  I  have  in  mine;  and  she 
knew  it  too,  and  took  care  of  them,  and  so  of  herself,  in 
a  wise  equine  fashion.  These  things  are  not  me — or  /, 
if  the  grammarians  like  it  better,  (I  always  feel  a  strife 
between  doing  as  the  scholar  does  and  doing  as  other 
people  do ;)  they  are  not  me,  I  say ;  I  have  them — and, 
please  God,  shall  soon  have  better.  For  it  is  not  a 
pleasant  thing  for  a  young  man,  or  a  young  woman 
either,  I  venture  to  say,  to  have  an  old  voice,  and  a 
wrinkled  face,  and  weak  knees,  and  gray  hair,  or  no  hair 
at  all.  And  if  any  moral  Philistine,  as  our  queer  Ger- 
man brothers  over  the  Northern  fish-pond  would  call 
him,  say  that  this  is  all  rubbish,  for  that  we  are  old,  I 
would  answer:  "Of  all  children  how  can  the  children  of 
God  be  old  1" 

So  little  do  I  give  in  to  calling  this  outside  of  me, 
me,  that  I  should  not  mind  presenting  a  minute  descrip- 
tion of  my  own  person  such  as  would  at  once  clear  me 
from  any  suspicion  of  vanity  in  so  introducing  myself. 
Not  that  my  honesty  would  result  in  the  least  from 
indifference  to  the  external — but  from  comparative  indif- 
ference to  the  transitional ;  not  to  the  transitional  in 
itself,  which  is  of  eternal  significance  and  result,  but  to 
the  particular  form  of  imperfection  which  it  may  have 
reached  at  any  individual  moment  of  its  infinite  pro- 
gression towards  the  complete.  For  no  sooner  have  I 
spoken  the  word  noiv,  than  that  nozu  is  dead  and  another 
is  dying ;  nay,  in  such  a  regard,  there  is  no  ilw — only  a 
past  of  which  we  know  a  little,  and  a  future  of  which  we 
know  far  less  and  far  more.     But  I  will  not  speak  at  ali 


4  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

of  this  body  of  my  earthly  tabernacle,  for  it  is  on  the 
whole  more  pleasant  to  forget  all  about  it.  And  be- 
sides, I  do  not  want  to  set  any  of  my  readers  to  whom  I 
would  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  far  more  openly 
aiid  cordially  than  if  they  were  seated  on  the  other  side 
of  my  writing-table — I  do  not  want  to  set  them  wonder- 
ing whether  the  vicar  be  this  vicar  or  that  vicar;  or 
indoed  to  run  the  risk  of  giving  the  offence  I  might 
give,  if  I  were  anything  else  than  "  a  wandering  voice." 

I  did  not  feel  as  I  feel  now  when  first  I  came  to  this 
parish.  For,  as  I  have  said,  I  am  now  getting  old  very 
fast.  True,  I  was  thirty  when  I  was  made  a  vicar,  an 
age  at  which  a  man  might  be  expected  to  be  beginning 
to  grow  wise ;  but  even  then  I  had  much  yet  to  learn. 

I  well  remember  the  first  evening  on  which  I  wan- 
dered out  from  the  vicarage  to  take  a  look  about  me — 
to  find  out,  in  short,  where  I  was,  and  what  aspect  the 
sky  and  earth  here  presented.  Strangely  enough,  I  had 
never  been  here  before  ;  for  the  presentation  had  been 
made  me  while  I  was  abroad. — I  was  depressed.  It 
was  depressing  weather.  Grave  doubts  as  to  whether  I 
was  in  my  place  in  the  church,  would  keep  rising  and 
floating  about,  like  rain-clouds  within  me.  Not  that  I 
doubted  about  the  church ;  I  only  doubted  about  my- 
self. "  Were  my  motives  pure  V*  "  What  were  my 
motives'?"  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  did  not  know  what 
my  motives  were,  and  therefore  I  could  not  answer 
about  the  purity  of  them.  Perhaps  seeing  we  are  in  this 
world  in  order  to  become  pure,  it  would  be  expecting 
too  much  of  any  young  man  tliat  he  should  be  abso 


DESPONDENCY    AND    CONSOLATION. 


liitely  certain  that  he  was  pure  in  anything.  But  the 
question  followed  very  naturally  :  "  Had  I  then  any 
right  to  be  in  the  Church — to  be  eating  her  bread  and 
drinking  her  wine  without  knowing  whether  I  was  fit  to 
do  her  work  1"  To  which  the  only  answer  I  could  find 
was,  "  The  Church  is  part  of  God's  world.  He  makes 
men  to  work ;  and  work  of  some  sort  must  be  done  by 
every  honest  man.  Somehow  or  other,  I  hardly  know 
how,  I  find  myself  in  the  Church.  I  do  not  know  that  I 
am  fitter  for  any  other  work.  I  see  no  other  work  to 
do.  There  is  work  here  which  I  can  do  after  some 
fashion.     With  God's  help  I  will  try  to  do  it  well." 

This  resolution  brought  me  some  relief,  but  still  I  was 
depressed.  It  was  depressing  weather. — I  may  as  well 
say  that  I  was  not  married  then,  and  that  I  firmly  be- 
lieved I  never  should  be  married — not  from  any  ambi- 
tion taking  the  form  of  self-denial ;  nor  yet  from  any 
notion  that  God  takes  pleasure  in  being  a  hard  master  ; 
but  there  was  a  lady — Well,  I  wi7/  be  honest,  as  I  would 
be. — I  had  been  refused  a  few  months  before,  which  I 
think  was  the  best  thing  ever  happened  to  me  except 
one.  That  one,  of  course,  was  when  I  was  accepted. 
But  this  is  not  much  to  the  purpose  now.  Only  it  was 
depressing  weather. 

For  is  it  not  depressing  when  the  rain  is  falling,  and 
the  steam  of  it  is  rising?  when  the  river  is  crawling 
along  muddily,  and  the  horses  stand  stock-still  in  the 
meadows  with  their  spines  in  a  straight  line  from  the 
ears  to  where  they  fail  utterly  in  the  tails  ]  I  should 
only  put  on  goloshes  now,  and  think  of  the  days  when  I 


6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

despised  damp.  Ah !  it  was  mental  waterproof  that  ] 
needed  then  ;  for  let  me  despise  damp  as  much  as  I 
would,  I  could  neither  keep  it  out  of  my  mind,  nor  help 
suffering  the  spiritual  rheumatism  which  it  occasioned. 
Now,  the  damp  never  gets  farther  than  my  goloshes  and 
my  Macintosh.  And  for  that  worst  kind  of  rheumatism 
— I  never  feel  it  now. 

But  I  had  begun  to  tell  you  about  that  first  evening. 
— I  had  arrived  at  the  vicarage  the  night  before,  and  it 
had  rained  all  day,  and  was  still  raining,  though  not  so 
much.     I  took  my  umbrella  and  went  out. 

For  as  I  wanted  to  do  my  work  well  (everything  tak- 
ing far  more  the  shape  of  work  to  me,  then,  and  duty, 
than  it  does  now — though,  even  now,  I  must  confess 
things  have  occasionally  to  be  done  by  the  clergyman 
because  there  is  no  one  else  to  do  them,  and  hardly 
from  other  motive  than  a  sense  of  duty, — a  man  not 
being  able  to  shirk  work  because  it  may  happen  to  be 
dirty) — I  say,  as  I  wanted  to  do  my  work  well,  or  rather, 
perhaps,  because  I  dreaded  drudgery  as  much  as  any 
poor  fellow  who  comes  to  the  treadmill  in  consequence 
— I  wanted  to  interest  myself  in  it ;  and  therefore  I  would 
go  and  fall  in  love,  first  of  all,  if  I  could,  with  the 
country  round  about.  And  my  first  step  beyond  my 
own  gate  was  up  to  the  ankles  in  mud. 

Therewith,  curiously  enough,  arose  the  distracting 
thought  how  I  could  possibly  preach  two  good  sermons 
a  Sunday  to  the  same  people,  when  one  of  the  sermons 
was  in  the  afternoon  instead  of  the  evening,  to  which 
latter  I  had  been  accustomed  in  the  large  town  in  which 


DESPONDENCY    AND    CONSOLATION.  •) 


I  had  formerly  officiated  as  curate  in  a  proprietary  chapel 
[,  who  had  declaimed  indignantly  against  excitement  from 
without,  who  had  been  inclined  to  exalt  the  intellect  at 
the  expense  even  of  the  heart,  began  to  fear  that  there 
must  be  something  in  the  darkness,  and  the  gas-lights, 
and  the  crowd  of  faces,  to  account  for  a  man's  being 
able  to  preach  a  better  sermon,  and  for  servant  girls  pre- 
ferring to  go  out  in  the  evening.  Alas  !  I  had  now  to 
preach,  as  I  might  judge  with  all  probability  beforehand, 
to  a  company  of  rustics,  of  thought  yet  slower  than  of 
speech,  unaccustomed  in  fact  to  fh'nk  at  all,  and  that  in 
the  sleepiest,  deadest  part  of  the  day,  when  I  could 
hardly  think  myself,  and  when,  if  the  weather  should  be 
at  all  warm,  I  could  not  expect  many  of  them  to  be 
awake.  And  what  good  might  I  look  for  as  the  result 
of  my  labour  ?  How  could  I  hope  in  these  men  and 
women  to  kindle  that  fire  which,  in  the  old  days  of  the 
outpouring  of  the  Spirit,  made  men  live  with  the  sense 
of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  about  them,  and  the  expecta- 
tion of  something  glorious  at  hand  just  outside  that 
invisible  door  which  lay  between  the  worlds  1 

I  have  learned  since,  that  perhaps  I  overrated  the 
spirituality  of  those  times,  and  underrated,  not  being 
myself  spiritual  enough  to  see  all  about  me,  the  spiritu- 
ality of  these  times.  I  think  I  have  learned  since,  that 
the  parson  of  a  parish  must  be  content  to  keep  the 
upper  windows  of  his  mind  open  to  the  holy  winds  and 
the  pure  lights  of  heaven  ;  and  the  side  windows  of  tone, 
of  speech,  of  behaviour  open  to  the  earth,  to  let  forth 
upon  his  fellow-men  the  tenderness  and  truth  which 


8  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

those  upper  influences  bring  forth  in  any  region  exposed 
to  their  operation.  Beheving  in  his  Master,  such  a  ser- 
vant shall  not  make  haste ;  shall  feel  no  feverous  desire 
to  behold  the  work  of  his  hands ;  shall  be  content  to  be  as 
his  Master,  who  waiteth  long  for  the  fruits  of  His  earth. 

But  surely  I  am  getting  older  than  I  thought;  for  1 
keep  wandering  away  from  my  subject,  which  is  this,  my 
first  walk  in  my  new  cure.  My  excuse  is,  that  I  want 
my  reader  to  understand  something  of  the  state  of  my 
mind,  and  the  depression  under  which  I  was  labouring. 
He  will  perceive  that  I  desired  to  do  some  work  worth 
calling  by  the  name  of  work,  and  that  I  did  not  see  how 
to  get  hold  of  a  beginning. 

I  had  not  gone  far  from  my  own  gate  before  the  rain 
ceased,  though  it  was  still  gloomy  enough  for  any 
amount  to  follow.  I  drew  down  my  umbrella,  and  be- 
gan to  look  about  me.  The  stream  on  my  left  was  so 
swollen  that  I  could  see  its  brown  in  patches  through 
the  green  of  the  meadows  along  its  banks.  A  little  in 
front  of  me,  the  road,  rising  quickly,  took  a  sharp  turn 
to  pass  along  an  old  stone  bridge  that  spanned  the 
water  with  a  single  fine  arch,  somewhat  pointed ;  and 
through  the  arch  I  could  see  the  river  stretching  away 
up  through  the  meadows,  its  banks  bordered  with  pol- 
lards. Now,  pollards  always  made  me  miserable.  In 
the  first  place,  they  look  ill-used  ;  in  the  next  place,  they 
look  tame ;  in  the  third  place,  they  look  very  ugly.  I 
had  not  learned  then  to  honour  them  on  the  ground 
that  they  yield  not  a  jot  to  the  adversity  of  their  circum- 
stances ;  that,  if  they  must  be  pollards,  they  still  will  be 


DESPONDENCY    AND    CONSOLATION.  5 

trees ;  and  what  they  may  not  do  with  grace,  they  will 
yet  do  with  bounty ;  that,  in  short,  their  life  bursts  forth, 
despite  of  all  that  is  done  to  repress  and  destroy  their 
individuality.  When  you  have  once  learned  to  honour 
anything,  love  is  not  very  far  off;  at  least  that  has 
always  been  my  experience.  But,  as  I  have  said,  I  had 
not  yet  leamed  to  honour  pollards,  and  therefore  they 
made  me  more  miserable  than  I  was  already. 

When,  having  followed  the  road,  I  stood  at  last  on 
the  bridge,  and,  looking  up  and  down  the  river  through 
the  misty  air,  saw  two  long  rows  of  these  pollards  dimin- 
ishing till  they  vanished  in  both  directions,  the  sight  of 
them  took  from  me  all  power  of  enjoying  the  water  be- 
neath me,  the  green  fields  around  me,  or  even  the  old- 
world  beauty  of  the  little  bridge  upon  which  I  stood, 
although  all  sorts  of  bridges  have  been  from  very  infancy 
a  delight  to  me.  For  I  am  one  of  those  who  never  get 
rid  of  their  infantile  predilections,  and  to  have  once 
enjoyed  making  a  mud  bridge,  was  to  enjoy  all  bridges 
for  ever. 

I  saw  a  man  in  a  white  smock-frock  coming  along  the 
road  beyond,  but  I  turned  my  back  to  the  road,  leaned 
my  arms  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  and  stood  gazing 
where  I  saw  no  visions,  namely,  at  those  very  poplars. 
I  heard  the  man's  footsteps  coming  up  the  crown  of  the 
arch,  but  I  would  not  turn  to  greet  him.  I  was  in  a 
selfish  humour  if  ever  I  was ;  for  surely  if  ever  one  man 
ought  to  greet  another,  it  was  upon  such  a  comfortless 
afternoon.  The  footsteps  stopped  behind  me,  and  I 
heard  a  voice  : — 


ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


"  I  beg  yer  pardon,  sir ;  but  be  you  the  new  vicar? " 

I  turned  instantly  and  answered,  "  I  am.  Do  you 
want  me  1 " 

"  I  wanted  to  see  yer  face,  sir,  that  was  all,  if  ye  '11 
not  take  it  amiss." 

Before  me  stood  a  tall  old  man  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  clothed  as  I  have  said,  in  a  white  smock-frock. 
He  smoothed  his  short  gray  hair  with  his  curved  palm 
down  over  his  forehead  as  he  stood.  His  face  was  of 
a  red  brown,  from  much  exposure  to  the  weather. 
There  was  a  certain  look  of  roughness,  without  hardness, 
in  it,  which  spoke  of  endurance  rather  than  resistance, 
although  he  could  evidently  set  his  face  as  a  flint.  His 
features  were  large  and  a  little  coarse,  but  the  smile  that 
parted  his  lips  when  he  spoke,  shone  in  his  gray  eyes  as 
well,  and  lighted  up  a  countenance  in  which  a  man  might 
trust. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  yer  face,  sir,  if  you  '11  not  take  it 
amiss." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  answered,  pleased  with  the  man's 
address,  as  he  stood  square  before  me,  looking  as  modest 
as  fearless.  "  The  sight  of  a  man's  face  is  what  every- 
body has  a  right  to ;  but,  for  all  that,  I  should  like  to 
know  why  you  want  to  see  my  face." 

*'  Why,  sir,  you  be  the  new  vicar.  You  kindly  told 
me  so  when  I  axed  you." 

"  Well,  then,  you  '11  see  my  face  on  Sunday  in  church 
— that  is,  if  you  happen  to  be  there." 

For,  although  some  might  think  it  the  more  dignified 
way,  I  could  not  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  h« 


DESPONDENCY    AND    CONSOLATION.  II 

would  be  at  church.  A  man  might  have  better  reasons 
for  staying  away  from'church  than  I  had  for  going,  even 
though  I  was  the  parson,  and  it  was  my  business.  Some 
clergymen  separate  between  themselves  and  their  office 
to  a  degree  which  I  cannot  understand.  To  assert  the 
dignities  of  my  office  seems  to  me  very  like  exalting  my- 
self;  and  when  I  have  had  a  twinge  of  conscience  about 
it,  as  has  happened  more  than  once,  I  have  then  found 
comfort  in  these  two  texts :  "  The  Son  of  man  came  not 
to  be  ministered  unto  but  to  minister ; "  and  "  It  is 
enough  that  the  servant  should  be  as  his  master." 
Neither  have  I  ever  been  able  to  see  the  very  great 
difference  between  right  and  wrong  in  a  clergyman,  and 
right  and  wrong  in  another  man.  All  that  I  can  pretend 
to  have  yet  discovered  comes  to  this  :  that  what  is  right 
in  another  man  is  right  in  a  clergyman ;  and  what  is 
wrong  in  another  man  is  much  worse  in  a  clergyman. 
Here,  however,  is  one  more  proof  of  approaching  age. 
I  do  not  mean  the  opinion,  but  the  digression. 

"  Well,  then,"  I  said,  "  you  '11  see  my  face  in  church 
on  Sunday,  if  you  happen  to  be  there." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  you  see,  sir,  on  the  bridge  here,  the 
parson  is  the  parson  like,  and  I  'm  Old  Rogers ;  and  I 
looks  in  his  face,  and  he  looks  in  mine,  and  I  says  to 
myself,  '  This  is  my  parson.'  But  o'  Sundays  he 's 
nobody's  parson ;  he 's  got  his  work  to  do,  and  it  mun 
be  done,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

That  there  was  a  real  idea  in  the  old  man's  mind  was 
considerably  clearer  than  the  logic  by  which  he  tried  to 
bring  it  out 


12  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Did  you  know  parson  that 's  gone,  sir  V  he  went  on. 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh,  sir !  he  wur  a*  good  parson.  Many 's  the  time 
he  come  and  sit  at  my  son's  bedside — him  that's  dead 
and  gone,  sir — for  a  long  hour,  on  a  Saturday  night,  too. 
And  then  when  I  see  him  up  in  the  desk  the  next  mor- 
nin',  I  'd  say  to  myself,  '  Old  Rogers,  that 's  the  same 
man  as  sat  by  your  son's  bedside  last  night.  Think  o' 
that,  Old  Rogers !'  But,  somehow,  I  never  did  feel 
right  sure  o'  that  same.  He  didn't  seem  to  have  the 
same  cut,  somehow ;  and  he  didn't  talk  a  bit  the  same. 
And  when  he  spoke  to  me  after  sermon,  in  the  church- 
yard, I  was  always  of  a  mind  to  go  into  the  church 
again  and  look  up  to  the  pulpit  to  see  if  he  war  really 
out  ov  it ;  for  this  warh't  the  same  man,  you  see.  But 
you'll  know  all  about  it  better  than  I  can  tell  you,  sir. 
Only  I  always  liked  parson  better  out  o'  the  pulpit,  and 
that 's  how  I  come  to  want  to  make  you  look  at  me,  sir, 
instead  o'  the  water  down  there,  afore  I  see  you  in  the 
church  to-morrow  mornin'." 

The  old  man  laughed  a  kindly  laugh ;  but  he  had  set 
me  thinking,  and  I  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him  all 
at  once.     So  after  a  short  pause,  he  resumed — 

"  You  '11  be  thinking  me  a  queer  kind  of  a  man,  sir, 
to  speak  to  my  betters  before  my  betters  speaks  to  me. 
But  mayhap  you  don't  know  what  a  parson  is  to  us  poor 
folk  that  has  ne'er  a  friend  more  larned  than  theirselves 
but  the  parson.  And  besides,  sir,  I  'm  an  old  salt, — an 
old  man-o'-war's  man, — and  I've  been  all  round  the 
world,   sir ;   and  I  ha'  been   in  all  sorts   o'  company. 


DESPONDENCY    AND    CONSOLATION.  I3 

pirates  and  all,  sir ;  and  I  aint  a  bit  frightened  of  a  par- 
son. No ;  I  love  a  parson,  sir.  And  I  '11  tell  you  foi 
why,  sir.  He 's  got  a  good  telescope,  and  he  gits  to  the 
masthead,  and  he  looks  out.  And  he  sings  out,  '  Land 
ahead!'  or  'Breakers  ahead!'  and  gives  directions  ac- 
cordin'.  Only  I  can't  always  make  out  what  he  says. 
But  when  he  shuts  up  his  spyglass,  and  comes  down  the 
riggin',  and  talks  to  us  like  one  man  to  another,  then  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  the  parson.  Good 
evenin'  to  you,  sir,  and  welcome  to  Marshmallows." 

The  pollards  did  not  look  half  so  dreary.  The  river 
began  to  glimmer  a  little ;  and  the  old  bridge  had  be- 
come an  interesting  old  bridge.  The  country  altogether 
was  rather  nice  than  otherwise.  I  had  found  a  friend 
already ! — that  is,  a  man  to  whom  I  might  possibly  be 
of  some  use;  and  that  was  the  most  precious  friend  I 
could  think  of  in  my  present  situation  and  mood.  I 
had  learned  something  from  him  too ;  and  I  resolved  to 
try  all  I  could  to  be  the  same  man  in  the  pulpit  that  I 
was  out  of  it.  Some  may  be  inclined  to  say  that  I  had 
better  have  formed  the  resolution  to  be  the  same  man 
out  of  the  pulpit  that  I  was  in  it.  But  the  one  will  go 
quite  right  with  the  other.  Out  of  the  pulpit  I  would 
be  the  same  man  I  was  in  it — seeing  and  feeling  the 
realities  of  the  unseen  ;  and  in  the  pulpit  I  would  be  the 
same  man  I  was  out  of  it — taking  facts  as  they  are,  and 
dealing  with  things  as  they  show  themselves  in  the 
world. 

One  other  occurrence  before  I  went  home  that  even- 
ing, and  I  shall  close  the  chapter.     I  hope  I  shall  not 


14  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

write  another  so  dull  as  this.  I  dare  not  promise, 
though  ;  for  this  is  a  new  kind  of  work  to  me. 

Before  I  left  the  bridge, — while,  in  fact,  I  was  con- 
templating the  pollards  with  an  eye,  if  not  of  favour,  yet 
of  diminished  dismay, — the  sun,  which,  for  anything  I 
knew  of  his  whereabouts,  either  from  knowledge  of  the 
country,  aspect  of  the  evening,  or  state  of  my  own  feel- 
ings, might  have  been  down  for  an  hour  or  two,  burst 
his  cloudy  bands,  and  blazed  out  as  if  he  had  just  risen 
from  the  dead,  instead  of  being  just  about  to  sink  into 
the  grave.  Do  not  tell  me  that  my  figure  is  untrue,  for 
that  the  sun  never  sinks  into  the  grave,  else  I  will  retort 
that  it  is  just  as  true  of  the  sun  as  of  a  man ;  for  that  no 
man  sinks  into  the  grave.  He  only  disappears.  Life  is 
a  constant  sunrise,  which  death  cannot  interrupt,  any 
more  than  the  night  can  swallow  up  the  sun.  "  God  is 
not  the  God  of  the  dead,  but  of  the  living ;  for  all  live 
unto  him." 

Well,  the  sun  shone  out  gloriously.  The  whole  sweep 
of  the  gloomy  river  answered  him  in  gladness ;  the  wet 
leaves  of  the  pollards  quivered  and  glanced ;  the 
meadows  offered  up  their  perfect  green,  fresh  and  clear 
out  of  the  trouble  of  the  rain  ;  and  away  in  the  distance, 
upon  a  rising  ground  covered  with  trees,  glittered  a 
weathercock.  What  if  I  found  afterwards  that  it  was 
only  on  the  roof  of  a  stable  ?  It  shone,  and  that  was 
enough.  And  when  the  sun  had  gone  below  the  horizon, 
and  the  fields  and  the  river  were  dusky  once  more,  there 
it  glittered  still  over  the  darkening  earth,  a  symbol  oi 
that  faith  which  is  "  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen," 


DESPONDENCY    AND    CONSOLATION.  15 

and  it  made  my  heart  swell  as  at  a  chant  from  the  pro- 
phet Isaiah.  What  matter  then  whether  it  hung  over  a 
stable-roof  or  a  church-tower? 

I  stood  up  and  wandered  a  little  farther — ofi'  tlie 
bridge,  and  along  the  road.  I  had  not  gone  far  before 
I  passed  a  house,  out  of  which  came  a  young  woman 
leading  a  little  boy.  They  came  after  me,  the  boy 
gazing  at  the  red  and  gold  and  green  of  the  sunset 
sky.     As  they  passed  me,  the  child  said — 

"  Auntie,  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  a  painter." 

"  Why  1"  returned  his  companion. 

"  Because,  then,"  answered  the  child,  "  I  could  help 
God  to  paint  the  sky." 

What  his  aunt  replied  I  do  not  know ;  for  they 
were  presently  beyond  my  hearing.  But  I  went  on 
answering  him  myself  all  the  way  home.  Did  God  care 
to  paint  the  sky  of  an  evening,  that  a  few  of  His  children 
might  see  it,  and  get  just  a  hope,  just  an  aspiration,  out 
of  its  passing  green,  and  gold,  and  purple,  and  red  1  and 
should  I  think  my  day's  labour  lost,  if  it  wrought  no 
visible  salvation  in  the  earth  1 

But  was  the  child's  aspiration  in  vain  1  Could  I  tell 
him  God  did  not  want  his  help  to  paint  the  sky]  True, 
he  could  mount  no  scaffold  against  the  infinite  of  the 
glowing  west.  But  might  he  not  with  his  little  palette 
and  brush,  when  the  time  came,  show  his  brothers  and 
sisters  what  he  had  seen  there,  and  make  them  see  it 
too  ]  Might  he  not  thus  come,  after  long  trying,  to  lielp 
God  to  paint  this  glory  of  vapour  and  light  inside  the 
minds  of  His  children?    Ah!  if  any  man's  work  is  not 


l6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

with  God,  its  results  shall  be  burned,  ruihlessly  burned, 
because  poor  and  bad. 

"  So,  for  my  part,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  walked  home, 
"  if  I  can  put  one  touch  of  a  rosy  sunset  into  the  life 
of  any  man  or  woman  of  my  cure,  I  shall  feel  that  I 
have  worked  with  God.  He  is  in  no  haste ;  and  if  I  do 
what  I  may  in  earnest,  I  need  not  mourn  if  I  work  no 
great  work  on  the  earth.  Let  God  make  His  sunsets : 
I  will  mottle  my  little  fading  cloud.  To  help  the  growth 
of  a  thought  that  struggles  towards  the  light ;  to  brush 
with  gentle  hand  the  earth-stain  from  the  white  of  one 
snowdrop — such  be  my  ambition  1  So  shall  I  scale  the 
rocks  in  front,  not  leave  my  name  carved  upon  those 
behind  me." 

People  talk  about  special  providences.  I  believe  in 
the  providences,  but  not  in  the  specialty.  I  do  not 
believe  that  God  lets  the  thread  of  my  afi'airs  go  for  six 
days,  and  on  the  seventh  evening  takes  it  up  for  a 
moment.  The  so-called  special  providences  are  no  ex- 
ception to  the  rule — they  are  common  to  all  men  at  all 
moments.  But  it  is  a  fact  that  God's  care  is  more 
evident  in  some  instances  of  it  than  in  others  to  the  dim 
and  often  bewildered  vision  of  humanity.  Upon  such 
instances  men  seize  and  call  them  providences.  It  is 
well  that  they  can ;  but  it  would  be  gloriously  better  if 
they  could  believe  that  the  whole  matter  is  one  grand 
providence. 

I  was  one  of  such  men  at  the  time,  and  could  not  fail 
to  see  what  I  called  a  special  providence  in  this,  that  on 
my  first  attempt  to  find  where  I  stood  in  tae  scheme  of 


DESPONDENCY   AND    CONSOLATION.  17 

Providence,  and  while  I  was  discouraged  with  regard  to 
the  work  before  me,  I  should  fall  in  with  these  two — an 
old  man  whom  I  could  help,  and  a  child  who  could  help 
me ;  the  one  opening  an  outlet  for  my  labour  and  my 
love,  and  the  other  reminding  me  of  the  highest  source 
of  the  most  humbling  comfort, — that  in  all  my  work  I 
misht  be  a  fellow-woiker  with  God. 


5 
^ 


CHAPTER  II. 

MY  FIRST  SUNDAY  AT  MARSHMALLOWS. 

HESE  events  fell  on  the  Saturday  night  On 
the  Sunday  morning,  I  read  prayers  and 
preached.  Never  before  had  1  enjoyed  so 
much  the  petitions  of  the  Church,  which 
Hooker  calls  "  the  sending  of  angels  upward,"  or  the 
reading  of  the  lessons,  which  he  calls  "  the  receiving  ot 
angels  descended  from  above."  And  whether  from  the 
newness  of  the  parson,  or  tlie  love  of  the  seryice,  cer- 
tainly a  congregation  more  intent,  or  more  responsive, 
a  clergyman  will  hardly  find.  But,  as  I  had  feared,  it 
was  different  in  the  afternoon.  The  people  had  dined, 
and  the  usual  somnolence  had  followed ;  nor  could  I 
find  in  my  heart  to  blame  men  and  women  who  worked 
hard  all  the  week,  for  being  drowsy  on  the  day  of  rest. 
So  I  curtailed  my  sermon  as  much  as  I  could,  omitting 
page  after  page  of  my  manuscript ;  and  when  I  came  to 
a  close,  was  rewarded  by  perceiving  an  agreeable  surprise 


MY    FIRST    SUNDAY    AT    M  ARS  H  MALLOWS.  I9 

upon  many  of  the  faces  round  me.  I  resolved  that,  in 
the  afternoons  at  least,  my  sermons  should  be  as  short 
as  heart  could  wish. 

But  that  afternoon  there  was  at  least  one  man  of  the 
congregation  who  was  neither  drowsy  nor  inattentive. 
Repeatedly  my  eyes  left  the  page  off  which  I  was  read- 
ing and  glanced  towards  him.  Not  once  did  I  find  his 
eyes  turned  away  from  me. 

There  was  a  small  loft  in  the  west  end  of  the  church, 
in  which  stood  a  little  organ,  whose  voice,  weakened 
by  years  of  praising,  and  possibly  of  neglect,  had  yet, 
among  a  good  many  tones  that  were  rough,  wooden, 
and  reedy,  a  few  remaining  that  were  as  mellow  as  ever 
praiseful  heart  could  wish  to  praise  withal.  And  these 
came  in  amongst  the  rest  like  trusting  thoughts  amidst 
"eating  cares;"  like  the  faces  of  children  borne  in  the 
arms  of  a  crowd  of  anxious  mothers ;  like  hopes  that  are 
young  prophecies  amidst  the  downward  sweep  of  events. 
For,  though  I  do  not  understand  music,  I  have  a  keen 
ear  for  the  perfection  of  the  single  tone,  or  the  complete- 
ness of  the  harmony.    But  of  this  organ  more  by  and  by. 

Now  this  little  gallery  was  something  larger  than  was 
just  necessary  for  the  organ  and  its  ministrants,  and  a 
few  of  the  parishioners  had  chosen  to  sit  in  its  fore- front 
Upon  this  occasion  there  was  no  one  there  but  the  man 
to  whom  I  have  referred. 

The  space  below  this  gallery  was  not  included  in  the 
part  of  the  church  used  for  the  service.  It  was  claimed 
by  the  gardener  of  the  place,  that  is  the  sexton,  to  hold 
his  gardening  tools.     There  were  a  few  ancient  carvings 


20  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

a . 

in  wood  lying  in  it,  very  brown  in  the  dusky  light  that 
came  through  a  small  lancet  windoAv,  opening,  not  to  the 
outside,  but  into  the  tower,  itself  dusky  with  an  endur- 
mg  twilight.  And  there  were  some  broken  old  head 
stones,  and  the  kindly  spade  and  pickaxe — but  I  have 
really  nothing  to  do  with  these  now,  for  I  am,  as  it  were, 
in  the  pulpit,  whence  one  ought  to  look  beyond  such 
things  as  these. 

Rising  against  the  screen  which  separated  this  mouldy 
portion  of  the  church  from  the  rest,  stood  an  old  monu- 
ment of  carved  wood,  once  brilliantly  painted  in  the 
portions  that  bore  the  arms  of  the  family  over  whose 
vault  it  stood,  but  now  all  bare  and  worn,  itself  gently 
flowing  away  into  the  dust  it  commemorated.  It  lifted 
its  gablet,  carved  to  look  like  a  canopy,  till  its  apex  was 
on  a  level  with  the  book-board  on  the  front  of  the 
organ-loft ;  and  over — in  fact  upon  this  apex  appeared 
the  face  of  the  man  whom  I  have  mentioned.  It  was  a 
very  remarkable  countenance — pale,  and  very  thin,  with- 
out any  hair,  except  that  of  thick  eyebrows  that  far  over- 
hung keen,  questioning  eyes.  Short  bushy  hair,  gray, 
not  white,  covered  a  well  formed  head  with  a  high 
narrow  forehead.  As  I  have  said,  those  keen  eyea 
kept  looking  at  me  from  under  their  gray  eyebrows  all 
the  time  of  the  sermon — intelligently  without  doubt,  but 
whether  sympathetically  or  otherwise  I  could  not  de- 
termine.    And  indeed  I  hardly  know  yet 

My  vestry  door  opened  upon  a  little  group  of  graves, 
simple  and  green,  without  headstone  or  slab;  poor 
graves,  the  memory  of  whose  occupants  no  one  had 


MY    FIRST    SUNDAY    AT    MARSHM ALLOWS.  21 

cared  to  preserve.  Good  men  must  have  preceded 
me  here,  else  the  poor  would  not  have  lain  so  near  the 
chancel  and  the  vestry-door.  All  about  and  beyond 
were  stones,  with  here  and  there  a  monument;  for 
mine  was  a  large  parish,  and  there  were  old  and  rich 
families  in  it,  more  of  which  buried  their  dead  here 
than  assembled  their  living.  But  close  by  the  vestry- 
door,  there  was  this  little  billowy  lake  of  grass.  And 
at  the  end  of  the  narrow  path  leading  from  the  door, 
was  the  churchyard  wall,  with  a  few  steps  on  each  side 
of  it,  that  the  parson  might  pass  at  once  from  the 
churchyard  into  his  own  shrubbery,  here  tangled,  almost 
matted,  from  luxuriance  of  growth.  But  I  would  nol 
creep  out  the  back  way  from  among  my  people.  That 
way  might  do  very  well  to  come  in  by ;  but  to  go  out, 
I  would  use  the  door  of  the  people.  So  I  went  along 
the  church,  a  fine  old  place,  such  as  I  had  never  hoped 
to  be  presented  to,  and  went  out  by  the  door  in  the 
north  side  into  the  middle  of  the  churchyard.  The  door 
on  the  other  side  was  chiefly  used  by  the  few  gentry  of 
the  neighbourhood ;  and  the  Lych-gate,  with  its  covered 
way,  (for  the  main  road  had  once  passed  on  that  side,) 
was  shared  between  the  coffins  and  the  carriages,  the 
dead  who  had  no  rank  but  one,  that  of  the  dead,  and 
the  living  who  had  more  money  than  their  neighbours. 
For,  let  the  old  gentry  disclaim  it  as  they  may,  mere 
wealth,  derived  from  whatever  source,  will  sooner  reach 
their  level  than  pooi  antiquity,  or  the  rarest  refinement 
of  personal  worth;  although,  to  be  sure,  the  oldest  oi 
them   will  sooner  give  to  the  rich  their  fons  or  their 


22  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

daughters  to  wed,  to  love  if  they  can,  to  have  children 
by,  than  they  will  yield  a  jot  of  their  ancestral  pre- 
eminence, or  acknowledge  any  equality  in  their  sons 
or  daughters-in-law.  The  carpenter's  son  is  to  them  an 
old  myth,  not  an  everlasting  fact.  To  Mammon  alont 
will  they  yield  a  little  of  their  rank — none  of  it  to 
Christ.  Let  me  glorify  God  that  Jesus  took  not  on 
Him  the  nature  of  nobles,  but  the  seed  of  Adam ;  for 
what  could  I  do  without  my  poor  brothers  and  sisters  1 

I  passed  along  the  church  to  the  northern  door,  and 
went  out  The  churchyard  lay  in  bright  sunshine.  All 
the  rain  and  gloom  were  gone.  "  If  one  could  only 
bring  this  glory  of  sun  and  grass  into  one's  hope  for  the 
future!"  thought  I;  and  looking  down  I  saw  the  little 
boy  who  aspired  to  paint  the  sky,  looking  up  in  my 
face  with  minglqd  confidence  and  awe. 

"  Do  you  trust  me,  my  little  man  ?"  thought  I.  "  You 
shall  trust  me  then.  But  I  won't  be  a  priest  to  you. 
I  '11  be  a  big  brother." 

For  the  priesthood  passes  away,  the  brotherhood  en- 
dures. The  priesthood  passes  away,  swallowed  up  in 
the  brotherhood.  It  is  because  men  cannot  learn  simple 
things,  cannot  believe  in  the  brotherhood,  that  they 
need  a  priesthood.  But  as  Dr  Arnold  said  of  the  Sun- 
day, ■"  They  do  need  it."  And  I,  for  one,  am  sure  that 
the  priesthood  needs  the  people  much  more  than  the 
people  needs  the  priesthood. 

So  I  stooped  and  lifted  the  child*and  held  him  in  my 
arms.  And  the  little  fellow  looked  at  me  one  moment 
longer,  and  then  put  his  arms  gently  round  my  neck 


i 


MY    FIRST    SUNDAY    AT    M  ARS  H  MALLOWS.  2% 

And  SO  we  were  friends.  When  I  had  set  him  down, 
which  I  did  presently,  for  I  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  the 
people  thinking  that  1  was  showing  off  the  clergyman^ 
I  looked  at  the  boy.  In  his  face  was  great  sweetness 
mingled  with  great  rusticity,  and  I  could  not  tell  whethej 
he  was  the  child  of  gentlefolk  or  of  peasants.  He  did 
not  say  a  word,  but  walked  away  to  join  his  aunt,  who 
was  waiting  for  him  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  He 
kept  his  head  turned  towards  me,  however,  as  he  went, 
so  that,  not  seeing  where  he  was  going,  he  stumbled 
over  the  grave  of  a  child,  and  fell  in  the  hollow  on  the 
other  side.  I  ran  to  pick  him  up.  His  aunt  reached 
him  at  the  same  moment. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir!"  she  said,  as  I  gave  him  to 
her,  with  an  earnestness  which  seemed  to  me  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  deed,  and  carried  him  away  with  a  deep 
blush  over  all  her  countenance. 

At  the  churchyard-gate,  the  old  man-of-war's  man  was 
waiting  to  have  another  look  at  me.  His  hat  was  in  his 
hand,  and  he  gave  a  pull  to  the  short  hair  over  his  fore- 
head, as  if  he  would  gladly  take  that  off  too,  to  show  his 
respect  for  the  new  parson.  I  held  out  my  hand  grate- 
fully. It  could  not  close  around  the  hard,  unyielding 
mass  of  fingers  which  met  it  He  did  not  know  how  to 
shake  hands,  and  left  it  all  to  me.  But  pleasure  sparkled 
in  his  eyes. 

"  My  old  woman  would  like  to  shake  hands  with  you, 
sir,"  he  said.  * 

Beside  him  stood  his  old  woman,  in  a  portentous 
bonnet,  beneath  whose  gay  yellow  ribbons  appeared  a 


14  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

dusky  old  face,  wrinkled  like  a  ship's  timbers,  out  ol 
which  looked  a  pair  of  keen  black  eyes,  where  the  best 
beauty,  that  of  loving-kindness,  had  not  merely  lingered, 
but  triumphed. 

"  I  shall  be  in  to  see  you  soon,"  I  said,  as  I  shook 
hands  with  her.     "  I  shall  find  out  where  you  live." 

"  Down  by  the  mill,"  she  said ;  "  close  by  it,  sir. 
There's  one  bed  in  our  garden  that  always  thrives,  in 
the  hottest  summer,  by  the  plash  from  the  mill,  sir." 

"  Ask  for  Old  Rogers,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "  Every- 
body knows  Old  Rogers.  But  if  your  reverence  minds 
what  my  wife  says,  you  won't  go  wrong.  When 
you  find  the  river,  it  takes  you  to  the  mill ;  and  when 
(ou  find  the  mill,  you  find  the  wheel ;  and  when  you 
find  the  wheel,  you  haven't  far  to  look  for  the  cottage, 
sir.     It 's  a  poor  place,  but  you  '11  be  welcome,  sir." 


CHAPTER  III. 

MY  FIRST  MONDAY  AT  MARSHMALLOWS. 

HE  next  day  I  might  expect  some  visitors. 
It  is  a  fortunate  thing  that  Enghsh  society 
now  regards  the  parson  as  a  gentleman,  else 
he  would  have  little  chance  of  being  useful 
to  the  upper  classes.  But  I  wanted  to  get  a  good  start 
of  them,  and  see  some  of  my  poor  before  my  rich  came 
to  see  me.  So  after  breakfast,  on  as  lovely  a  Monday 
in  the  beginning  of  autumn  as  ever  came  to  comfort  a 
clergyman  in  the  reaction  of  his  efforts  to  feed  his  flock 
on  the  Sunday,  I  walked  out,  and  took  my  way  to  the 
village.  I  strove  to  dismiss  from  my  mind  every  feeling 
of  doing  duty,  oi performing  my  part,  and  all  that.  I  had 
a  horror  of  becoming  a  moral  policeman  as  much  as  of 
"  doing  church."  I  would  simply  enjoy  the  privilege, 
more  open  to  me  in  virtue  of  my  oflice,  of  minister- 
ing. But  as  no  servant  has  a  right  to  force  his  ser- 
vice, SQ  I  would  be  the  neighbour  only,  until  such  time 


26  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

as  the  opportunity  of  being  the  servant  should  show 
itself. 

The  village  was  as  irregular  as  a  village  should  be, 
partly  consisting  of  those  white  houses  with  intersect- 
ing parallelograms  of  black  which  still  abound  in  some 
regions  of  our  island.  Just  in  the  centre,  however, 
grouping  about  an  old  house  of  red  brick,  which  had 
once  been  a  manorial  residence,  but  was  now  subdivided 
in  all  modes  that  analytic  ingenuity  could  devise,  rose  a 
portion  of  it  which,  from  one  point  of  view,  might  seem 
part  of  an  old  town.  But  you  had  only  to  pass  round 
any  one  of  three  visible  corners  to  see  stacks  of  wheat 
and  a  farm-yard ;  while  in  another  direction  the  houses 
went  straggling  away  into  a  wood  that  looked  very  like 
the  beginning  of  a  forest,  of  which  some  of  the  village 
orchards  appeared  to  form  part.  From  the  street  the 
slow-winding,  poplar-bordered  stream  was  here  and  there 
just  visible. 

I  did  not  quite  like  to  have  it  between  me  and  my 
village.  I  could  not  help  preferring  that  homely  rela- 
tion in  which  the  houses  are  built  up  like  swallow-nests 
on  to  the  very  walls  of  the  cathedrals  themselves,  to  the 
arrangement  here,  where  the  river  flowed,  with  what  flow 
there  was  in  it,  between  the  church  and  the  people. 

A  little  way  beyond  the  farther  end  of  the  village 
appeared  an  iron  gate,  of  considerable  size,  dividing 
a  lofty  stone  wall.  And  upon  the  top  of  that  one  of 
the  stone  pillars  supporting  the  gate  which  I  could  see, 
stood  a  creature  of  stone,  whether  naiant,  volant,  passant, 
a'uchanty  or  rampant,  I  coul4  not  tell,  pnly  it  Ipoked . 


MY    FIRST    MONDAY    AT    M  AK  S  HM  ALLOW  S.  27 

like  something  terrible  enough  for  a  quite  antediluvian 
heraldry. 

As  I  passed  along  the  street,  wondering  with  myself 
what  relations  between  me  and  these  houses  were  hid- 
den in  the  future,  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  window  of 
a  little  shop,  in  which  strings  of  beads  and  elephants 
of  gingerbread  formed  the  chief  samples  of  the  goods 
within.  It  was  a  window  much  broader  than  it  was 
high,  divided  into  lozenge-shaped  panes.  Wondering 
what  kind  of  old  woman  presided  over  the  treasures 
in  this  cave  of  Aladdin,  I  thought  to  make  a  first  ot 
my  visits  by  going  in  and  buying  something.  But  I 
hesitated,  because  I  could  not  think  of  anything  I  was 
in  want  of — at  least  that  the  old  woman  was  likely  to 
have.  To  be  sure  I  wanted  a  copy  of  Bengel's  "  Gno- 
mon;" but  she  was  not  likely  to  have  that.  I  wanted 
the  fourth  plate  in  the  third  volume  of  Law's  "  Behmen;" 
she  was  not  likely  to  have  that  either.  I  did  not  care 
for  gingerbread;  and  I  had  no  little  girl  to  take  home 
beads  to. 

But  why  should  I  not  go  in  without  an  ostensible 
errand  1  For  this  reason :  there  are  dissenters  every- 
where, and  I  could  not  tell  but  I  might  be  going  into 
the  shop  of  a  dissenter.  Now,  though,  I  confess,  no- 
thing would  have  pleased  me  better  than  that  all  the 
dissenters  should  return  to  their  old  home  in  the 
Church,  I  could  not  endure  the  suspicion  of  laying 
myself  out  to  entice  them  back  by  canvassing  or  using 
any  personal  influence.  Whether  they  returned  or  not, 
however,  (and  I  did  not  expect  many  would,)  I  hoped 


28  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Still,  some  day,  to  stand  towards  every  one  of  them  in 
the  relation  of  the  parson  of  the  parish,  that  is,  one  of 
whom  each  might  feel  certain  that  he  was  ready  to 
serve  him  or  her  at  any  hour  when  he  might  be  wanted 
to  render  a  service.  In  the  meantime,  I  could  not  help 
hesitating. 

I  had  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  if  she  had  a 
small  pocket  compass,  for  I  had  seen  such  things  in 
little  country  shops — I  am  afraid  only  in  France,  though 
— when  the  door  opened,  and  out  came  the  little  boy 
whom  I  had  already  seen  twice,  and  who  was  therefore 
one  of  my  oldest  friends  in  the  place.  He  came  across 
the  road  to  me,  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said — 

"  Come  and  see  mother," 

"  Where,  my  dear?"  I  asked. 

"  In  the  shop  there,"  he  answered. 

"  Is  it  your  mother's  shop  ? " 

"Yes." 

I  said  no  more,  but  accompanied  him.  Of  course  my 
expectation  of  seeing  an  old  woman  behind  the  counter 
hail  vanished,  but  I  was  not  in  the  least  prepared  for 
the  kind  of  woman  I  did  see. 

The  place  was  half  a  shop  and  half  a  kitchen.  A 
yard  or  so  of  counter  stretched  inwards  from  the  door, 
just  as  a  hint  to  those  who  might  be  intrusively  inclined, 
lieyond  this,  by  the  chimney-comer,  sat  the  mother,  who 
rose  as  we  entered.  She  was  certainly  one — I  do  not 
say  of  the  most  beautiful,  but,  until  I  have  time  to  ex- 
plain further — of  the  most  remarkable  women  I  had  ever 
seen.     Her  face  was  absolutely  white — no,  pale  cream- 


MY    FIRST    MONDAY    AT    MARSHM ALLOWS.  jg 

colour — except  lier  lips  and  a  spot  upon  each  cheek, 
which  glowed  with  a  deep  carmine.  You  would  have 
said  she  had  been  painting,  and  painting  very  inartisti- 
cally,  so  little  was  the  red  shaded  into  the  surrounding 
white.  Now  this  was  certainly  not  beautiful.  Indeed, 
it  occasioned  a  strange  feeling,  almost  of  terror,  at  first, 
for  she  reminded  one  of  the  spectre  woman  in  the 
"  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner."  But  when  I  got  used 
to  her  complexion,  I  saw  that  the  form  of  her  features 
was  quite  beautiful.  She  might  indeed  have  been  /o7'e/y 
but  for  a  certain  hardness  which  showed  through  the 
beauty.  This  might  have  been  the  result  of  ill  health, 
ill-erdured;  but  I  doubted  it.  For  there  was  a  certain 
modelling  of  the  cheeks  and  lips  which  showed  that  the 
teeth  within  were  firmly  closed ;  and,  taken  with  the 
look  of  the  eyes  and  forehead,  seemed  the  expression  of 
a  constant  and  bitter  self-command.  But  there  were  in- 
dubitable marks  of  ill  health  upon  her,  notwithstanding; 
for  not  to  mention  her  complexion,  her  large  dark  eye 
was  burning  as  if  the  lamp  of  life  had  broken  and  the 
oil  was  blazing ;  and  there  was  a  slight  expansion  of  the 
nostrils,  which  indicated  physical  unrest.  But  her  man- 
ner was  perfectly,  almost  dreadfully,  quiet;  her  voice 
soft,  low,  and  chiefly  expressive  of  indifference.  She 
spoke  without  looking  me  in  the  face,  but  did  not  seem 
either  shy  or  ashamed  Her  figure  was  remarkably 
graceful,  though  too  worn  to  be  beautiful. — Here  was 
a  strange  parishioner  for  me ! — in  a  country  toy-shop, 
too! 

As  soon  as  the  little  fellow  had  brought  me  in,  he 


30  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

shrunk  away  through  a  half-open  door  that  revealed  a 
stair  behind. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?"  said  the  mother, 
coldly,  and  with  a  kind  of  book-propriety  of  speech,  as 
she  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  counter,  pre- 
pared to  open  box  or  drawer  at  command. 

'•  To  tell  the  truth,  I  hardly  know,"  I  said.  "  I  am 
the  new  vicar ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  I  should  have 
come  in  to  see  you  just  to-day,  if  it  had  not  been  that 
your  little  boy  there — where  is  he  gone  to  1  He  asked 
me  to  come  in  and  see  his  mother." 

"  He  is  too  ready  to  make  advances;  to  strangers, 
sir." 

She  said  this  in  an  incisive  tone. 

"  Oh,  but,"  I  answered,  "  I  am  not  a  stranger  to  hinx 
I  have  met  him  twice  before.  He  is  a  little  darling.  I 
assure  you  he  has  quite  gained  my  heart." 

No  reply  for  a  moment.  Then  just  "Indeed!"  and 
nothing  more. 

I  could  not  understand  it 

But  a  jar  on  a  shelf,  marked  Tobacco^  rescued  me  from 
the  most  pressing  portion  of  the  perplexity,  namely, 
what  to  say  next. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tobacco  ?* 
I  said. 

The  woman  turned,  took  down  the  jar,  arranged  the 
scales,  weighed  out  the  quantity,  wrapped  it  up,  took 
the  money,  —  and  all  without  one  other  word  than, 
"  Thank  you,  sir ;"  which  was  all  I  could  return,  with 
the  addition  of,  "  Good  morning." 


MY    FIRST    MONDAY    AT    MARSHMALLOWS.  3I 

For  nothing  was  left  me  but  to  walk  away  with  my 
parcel  in  my  pocket. 

The  little  boy  did  not  show  himself  again.  I  had 
hoped  to  find  him  outside. 

Pondering,  speculating,  I  now  set  out  for  the  mill, 
which,  I  had  already  learned,  was  on  the  village  side  of 
the  river.  Coming  to  a  lane  leading  down  to  the  river, 
I  followed  it,  and  then  walked  up  a  path  outside  the 
row  of  pollards,  through  a  lovely  meadow,  where  brown 
and  white  cows  were  eating  and  shining  all  over  the 
thick  deep  grass.  Beyond  the  meadow,  a  wood  on  the 
side  of  a  rising  ground  went  parallel  with  the  river  a 
long  way.  The  river  flowed  on  my  right.  That  is,  I 
knew  that  it  was  flowing,  but  I  could  not  have  told  how 
I  knew,  it  was  so  slow.  Still  swollen,  it  was  of  a  clear 
brown,  in  which  you  could  see  the  browner  trouts  dart- 
ing to  and  fro  with  such  a  slippery  gliding,  that  the 
motion  seemed  the  result  of  will,  without  any  such  in- 
termediate and  complicate  arrangement  as  brain  and 
nerves  and  muscles.  The  water-beetles  went  spinning 
about  over  the  surface  ;  and  one  glorious  dragon-fly 
made  a  mist  about  him  with  his  long  wings.  And  over 
all,  the  sun  hung  in  the  sky,  pouring  down  life ;  shining 
on  the  roots  of  the  willows  at  the  bottom  of  the  stream ; 
lighting  up  the  black  head  of  the  water-rat  as  he  hurried 
across  to  the  opposite  bank;  glorifying  the  rich  green 
lake  of  the -grass  ;  and  giving  to  the  whole  an  utterance 
of  love  and  hope  and  joy,  which  was,  to  him  who  could 
read  it,  a  more  certain  and  full  revelation  of  God  than 
any  display  of  pojver  in  thunder,  in  avalanche,  in  stormy 


32  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

sea.  Those  with  whom  the  feeling  of  rehgion  is  only 
occasional,  have  it  most  when  the  awful  or  grand  breaks 
out  of  the  common ;  the  meek  who  inherit  the  earth, 
find  the  God  of  the  whole  earth  more  evidently  present 
— I  do  not  say  more  present,  for  there  is  no  measuring 
of  His  presence — more  evidently  present  in  the  com- 
monest things.  That  which  is  best  He  gives  most  plen- 
tifully, as  is  reason  with  Him.  Hence  the  quiet  fulness 
of  ordinary  nature ;  hence  the  Spirit  to  them  that  ask  it 
I  soon  came  within  sound  of  the  mill ;  and  presently, 
crossing  the  stream  that  flowed  back  to  the  river  after 
having  done  its  work  on  the  corn,  I  came  in  front  of 
the  building,  and  looked  over  the  half-door  into  the  mill. 
The  floor  was  clean  and  dusty.  A  few  full  sacks,  tied 
tight  at  the  mouth  —  they  always  look  to  me  as  if 
Joseph's  silver  cup  were  just  inside — stood  about.  In 
the  farther  comer,  the  flour  was  trickling  down  out  of 
two  wooden  spouts  into  a  wooden  receptacle  below. 
The  whole  place  was  full  of  its  own  faint  but  pleasant 
odour.  No  man  was  visible.  The  spouts  went  on 
pouring  the  slow  torrent  of  flour,  as  if  everything  could 
go  on  with  perfect  propriety  of  itself.  I  could  not  even 
see  how  a  man  could  get  at  the  stones  that  I  heard 
grinding  away  above,  except  he  went  up  the  rope  that 
hung  from  the  ceiling.  So  I  walked  round  the  comer 
of  the  place,  and  found  myself  in  the  company  of  the 
watSr-wheel,  mossy  and  green  with  ancient  waterdrops, 
looking  so  furred  and  overgrown  and  lumpy,  that  one 
might  have  thought  the  wood  of  it  had  taken  to  growing 
again  in  its  old  days,  and  so  the  wheel  was  losing  by 


MY    FIRST    MONDAY    AT    MARSH  MALLOWS.  53 

slow  degrees  the  shape  of  a  wheel,  to  become  some  new 
awful  monster  of  a  pollard.  As  yet,  however,  it  was 
going  round;  slowly,  indeed,  and  with  the  gravity  of 
age,  but  doing  its  work,  and  casting  its  loose  drops  in 
the  alms-giving  of  a  gentle  rain  upon  a  little  plot  of 
Master  Rogers's  garden,  which  was  therefore  full  of 
moisture-loving  flowers.  This  plot  was  divided  from  the 
mill-wheel  by  a  small  stream  which  carried  away  the 
surplus  water,  and  was  now  full  and  running  rapidly. 

Beyond  the  stream,  beside  the  flower  bed,  stood  a 
dusty  young  man,  talking  to  a  young  woman  with  a  rosy 
face  and  clear  honest  eyes.  The  moment  they  saw  me 
they  parted.  The  young  man  came  across  the  stream 
at  a  step,  and  the  young  woman  went  up  the  garden 
towards  the  cottage. 

"That  must  be  Old  Rogers's  cottage?"  I  said  to  the 
miller. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  looking  a  little  sheepish. 

"Was  that  his  daughter  —  that  nice-looking  young 
woman  you  were  talking  to?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  was." 

And  he  stole  a  shy  pleased  look  at  me  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  eyes. 

"  It 's  a  good  thing,"  I  said,  "  to  have  an  honest  ex- 
perienced old  mill  like  yours,  that  can  manage  to  go  on 
of  itself  for  a  little  while  now  and  then." 

This  gave  a  great  help  to  his  budding  confidence.  He 
laughed. 

"  Well,  sir,  it 's  not  very  often  it 's  left  to  itself.     Jane 

isn't  at  her  father's  above  once  or  twice  a  week  at  most" 

c 


34  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"She  doesn't  live  with  them,  then?" 

"  No,  sir.  You  see  they  're  both  hearty,  and  they 
ain't  over  well  to  do,  and  Jane  lives  up  at  the  Hall,  sir. 
She  's  upper  housemaid,  and  waits  on  one  of  the  young 
ladies. — Old  Rogers  has  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world, 
sir." 

"  So  I  imagine.  I  am  just  gomg  to  see  him.  Good 
morning." 

I  jumped  across  the  stream,  and  went  up  a  little  gravel- 
walk,  which  led  me  in  a  few  yards  to  the  cottage-door. 
It  was  a  sweet  place  to  live  in,  with  honeysuckle  growing 
over  the  house,  and  the  sounds  of  the  softly-labouring 
mill-wheel  ever  in  its  little  porch  and  about  its  windows. 

The  door  was  open,  and  Dame  Rogers  came  from 
within  to  meet  me.  She  welcomed  me,  and  led  the  way 
into  her  little  kitchen.  As  I  entered,  Jane  went  out  at 
the  back-door.  But  it  was  only  to  call  her  father,  who 
presently  came  in. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  sir.  This  pleasure  comes  of 
having  no  work  to-day.  After  harvest  there  comes  slack 
times  for  the  likes  of  me.  People  don't  care  about  a 
bag  of  old  bones  when  they  can  get  hold  of  young  men. 
Well,  well,  never  mind,  old  woman.  The  Lord  '11  take 
us  through  somehow.  When  the  wind  blows,  the  ship 
goes ;  when  the  wind  drops,  the  ship  stops ;  but  the  sea 
is  His  all  the  same,  for  He  made  it;  and  the  wind  is 
His  all  the  same  too." 

He  spoke  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  tone,  unaware  of 
anything  poetic  in  what  he  said.  To  him  it  was  just 
common  sense,  and  common  sense  only. 


MY    FIRST   MONDAY    AT    MARSHM ALLOWS.  3$ 

"  I  am  sorry  you  are  out  of  work,"  I  said.  "  But  my 
garden  is  sadly  out  of  order,  and  I  must  have  sometliing 
done  to  it.     You  don't  dislike  gardening,  do  you  V 

"  Well,  I  beant  a  right  good  hand  at  garden-work," 
answered  the  old  man,  with  some  embarrassment,  scratch- 
ing his  gray  head  with  a  troubled  scratch. 

There  was  more  in  this  than  met  the  ear;  but  what,  I 
could  not  conjecture.  I  would  press  the  point  a  little. 
•So  I  took  him  at  his  own  word. 

"  I  won't  ask  you  to  do  any  of  the  more  ornamental 
part,"  I  said, — "  only  plain  digging  and  hoeing." 

"  I  would  rather  be  excused,  sir." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  made  you  think  " 

"  I  thought  nothing,  sir.     I  thank  you  kindly,  sir." 

"  I  assure  you  I  want  the  work  done,  and  I  must 
employ  some  one  else  if  you  don't  undertake  it." 

"  Well,  sir,  my  back 's  bad  now — no,  sir,  I  won't  tell 
a  story  about  it.     I  would  just  rather  not,  sir." 

"  Now,"  his  wife  broke  in,  "  now,  Old  Rogers,  why 
won't  'ee  tell  the  parson  the  truth,  like  a  man,  down- 
right? If  ye  won't,  I'll  do  it  for  'ee.  The  fact  is,  sir," 
she  went  on,  turning  to  me,  with  a  plate  in  her  hand, 
which  she  was  wiping,  "  the  fact  is,  that  the  old  parson's 
man  for  that  kind  o'  work  was  Simmons,  t'other  end  of 
the  village;  and  my  man  is  so  afeard  o'  hurtin'  e'er 
another,  that  he'll  turn  the  bread  away  from  his  own 
mouth  and  let  it  fall  in  the  dirt." 

"  Now,  now,  old  'oman,  don't  'ee  belie  me.  I  'm  not 
so  bad  as  that.  You  see,  sir,  I  never  was  good  at 
knowin'  right  from  wrong  like.     I  never  was  good,  that 


36  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    N  EJ  GHBOURHOOD. 

is,  at  tellin'  exactly  what  I  ought  to  do.  So  when  any- 
thing comes  up,  I  just  says  to  myself,  '  Now,  Old  Rogers, 
fvhat  do  you  think  the  Lord  would  best  like  you  to  do?' 
And  as  soon  as  I  ax  myself  that,  I  know  directly  what 
I've  got  to  do;  and  then  my  old  woman  can't  turn  me 
no  more  than  a  bull.  And  she  don't  like  my  obstinate 
fits.  But,  you  see,  I  daren't  sir,  once  I  axed  myself 
that." 

"  Stick  to  that,  Rogers,"  I  said. 

"  Besides,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "  Simmons  wants  it  more 
than  I  do.  He's  got  a  sick  wife;  and  my  old  woman, 
thank  God,  is  hale  and  hearty.  And  there  is  another 
thing  besides,  sir :  he  might  take  it  hard  of  you,  sir,  and 
think  it  was  turning  away  an  old  servant  like;  and  then, 
sir,  he  wouldn't  be  ready  to  hear  what  you  had  to  tell 
him,  and  might,  mayhap,  lose  a  deal  o'  comfort.  And 
that  I  would  take  worst  of  all,  sir." 

"  Well,  well,  Rogers,  Simmons  shall  have  the  job." 

"  Thank  ye,  sir,"  said  the  old  man. 

His  wife,  who  could  not  see  the  thing  quite  from  her 
husband's  point  of  view,  was  too  honest  to  say  anything ; 
but  she  was  none  the  less  cordial  to  me.  The  daughter 
stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  attentive  face, 
which  took  everything,  but  revealed  nothing. 

I  rose  to  go.  As  I  reached  the  door.  I  remembered 
the  tobacco  in  my  pocket.  I  had  not  bought  it  for  my- 
self I  never  could  smoke.  Nor  do  I  conceive  that 
smoking  is  essential  to  a  clergyman  in  the  country; 
though  I  have  occasionally  envied  one  of  my  brethren 
in  London,  who  will  sit  down  by  the  fire,  and,  lighting 


MY    FIRST    MONDAY    AT    MARSHMALLOWS.  37 

nks  pipe,  at  the  same  time  please  his  host  and  subdue 
the  bad  smells  of  the  place.  And  I  never  could  hit  his 
way  of  talking  to  his  parishioners  either.  He  could  put 
them  at  their  ease  in  a  moment.  I  think  he  must  have 
got  the  trick  out  of  his  pipe.  But  in  reality,  I  seldom 
think  about  how  I  ought  to  talk  to  anybody  I  am  with. 

That  I  didn't  smoke  myself  was  no  reason  why  1 
should  not  help  Old  Rogers  to  smoke.  So  I  pulled  out 
the  tobacco. 

"You  smoke,  don't  you,  Rogers?"  I  said. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  can't  deny  it.  It 's  not  much  I  spend 
oh  baccay,  anyhow.     Is  it,  dame  1 

"  No,  that  it  bean't,"  answered  his  wife. 

"  You  don't  think  there 's  any  harm  in  smoking  a 
pipe,  sir?" 

"  Not  the  least,"  I  answered,  with  emphasis. 

"  You  see,  sir,"  he  went  on,  not  giving  me  time  to 
prove  how  far  I  was  from  thinking  there  was  any  harm 
in  it,  "  You  see,  sir,  sailors  learns  many  ways  they  might 
be  better  without.  I  used  to  take  my  pan  o'  grog  with 
the  rest  of  them ;  but  I  give  that  up  quite,  'cause  as  how 
I  don't  want  it  now." 

'*  'Cause  as  how,"  interrupted  his  wife,  "  you  spend 
the  money  on  tea  for  me,  instead.  You  wicked  old 
man  to  tell  stories !" 

"  Well,  I  takes  my  share  of  the  tea,  old  woman,  and 
I  'm  sure  it's  a  deal  better  for  me.  But,  to  tell  the  truth, 
sir,  I  was  a  little  troubled  in  my  mind  about  the  baccay, 
not  knowing  whether  I  ought  to  have  it  or  not  For 
you  see/ the  parson  that's  gone  didn't  more  than  half 


38  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

like  it,  as  I  could  tell  by  the  tum  of  his  hawse-holes 
when  he  came  in  at  the  door  and  me  a-smokin'.  Not 
as  he  said  anything ;  for,  ye  see,  I  was  an  old  man,  and 
I  daresay  that  kep  him  quiet.  But  I  did  hear  him  blow 
lip  a  young  chap  i'  the  village  he  come  upon  promiscus 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He  did  give  him  a  thunderin' 
broadside,  to  be  sure  !  So  I  was  in  two  minds  whether 
I  ought  to  go  on  with  my  pipe  or  not." 

"And  how  did  you  settle  the  question,  Rogers  1" 
"  Why,  I  followed  my  own  old  chart,  sir." 
"  Quite  right.      One  mustn't   mind  too  much  what 
other  people  think." 

"That's  not  exactly  what  I  mean,  sir." 
"  What  do  you  mean  theni  I  should  like  to  know." 
"  Well,  sir,  I  mean  that  I'said  to  myself,  *  Now,  Old 
Rogers,  what  do  you  think  the^Lord  would  say  about 
this  here  baccay  business?'" 

"  And  what  did  you  think  He  would  say  V 
"  Why,  sir,  I  thought  He  would  say,  '  Old  Rogers, 
have  yer  baccay ;  only  mind  ye  don't  grumble  when  you 
'aint  got  none.'" 

Something  in  this — I  could  not  at  the  time  have  told 
what — touched  me  more  than  I  can  express.  No  doubt 
it  was  the  simple  reality  of  the  relation  in  which  the  old 
man  stood  to  his  Father  in  heaven  that  made  me  feel 
as  if  the  tears  would  come  in  spite  of  me. 

"  And  this  is  the  man,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  whom  I 
thought  I  should  be  able  to  teach !     Well,  the  wisest 
learn  most,  and  I  may  be  useful  to  him  after  all." 
As  I  said  nothing,  the  old  man  resumed — 


MY   FIRST    MONDAY   AT    MARSHMALLOWS.  39 

"  For  you  see,  sir,  it  is  not  always  a  body  feels  he  has 
a.  right  to  spend  his  ha'pence  on  baccay ;  and  sometimes, 
too,  he  'aint  got  none  to  spend." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  I  said,  "  here  is  some  that  I 
bought  for  you  as  I  came  along.  I  hope  you  will  find 
it  good.     I  am  no  judge." 

The  old  sailor's  eyes  glistened  with  gratitude.  "  Well, 
who  'd  ha'  thought  it.  You  didn't  think  I  was  beggin' 
for  it,  sir,  surely  1 " 

"  You  see  I  had  it  for  you  in  my  pocket." 

"  Well,  that  is  good  o'  you,  sir !" 

"Why,  Rogers,  that'll  last  you  a  month  !"  exclaimed 
his  wife,  looking  nearly  as  pleased  as  himself. 

"  Six  weeks  at  least,  wife,"  he  answered.  "  And  ye 
don't  smoke  yourself,  sir,  and  yet  ye  bring  baccay  to 
me  !     Well,  it's  just  like  yer  Master,  sir." 

I  went  away,  resolved  that  Old  Rogers  should  have 
no  chance  of  "grumbhng"  for  want  of  tobacco,  if  I 
could  help  it. 


« 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  COFFIN. 

N"  the  way  back,  my  thoughts  were  still  occu- 
pied with  the  woman  I  had  seen  in  the  little 
shop.  The  old  man-of-war's  man  was  pro- 
bably the  nobler  being  of  the  two  ;  and  if  I 
had  had  to  choose  between  them,  I  should  no  doubt 
have  chosen  him.  But  I  had  not  to  choose  between 
them ;  I  had  only  to  think  about  them ;  and  I  thought  a 
great  deal  more  about  the  one  I  could  not  understand 
than  the  one  I  could  understand.  For  Old  Rogers 
wanted  little  help  from  me ;  whereas  the  other  was  evi- 
dently a  soul  in  pain,  and  therefore  belonged  to  me  in 
peculiar  right  of  my  office ;  while  the  readiest  way  in 
which  I  could  justify  to  myself  the  possession  of  that 
office  was  to  make  it  a  shepherding  of  the  sheep.  So  I 
resolved  to  find  out  what  I  could  about  her,  as  one  hav- 
ing a  right  to  know,  that  I  might  see  whether  I  could 
not  help  her.     From  herself  it  was  evident  that  hel 


THE    COFFIN.  4I 


secret,  if  she  had  one,  was  not  to  be  easily  gained ;  bul 
even  the  common  reports  of  the  village  would  be  some 
enlightenment  to  the  darkness  I  was  in  about  her. 

As  I  went  again  through  the  village,  I  observed  a  nar- 
row lane  striking  off  to  the  left,  and  resolved  to  explore 
in  that  direction.  It  led  up  to  one  side  of  the  large 
house  of  which  I  have  already  spoken.  As  I  came  near, 
I  smelt  what  has  been  to  me  always  a  delightful  smell — 
that  of  fresh  deals  under  the  hands  of  the  carpenter.  In 
the  scent  of  those  boards  of  pine  is  enclosed  all  the  idea 
the  tree  could  gather  of  the  world  of  forest  where  it  was 
reared.  It  speaks  of  many  wild  and  bright  but  chiefly 
clean  and  rather  cold  things.  If  I  were  idling,  it  would 
draw  me  to  it  across  many  fields. — Turning  a  corner,  I 
heard  the  sound  of  a  saw.  And  this  sound  drew  me  yet 
more.  For  a  carpenter's  shop  was  the  delight  of  my 
boyhood ;  and  after  I  began  to  read  the  history  of  our 
Lord  with  something  of  that  sense  of  reality  with  which 
we  read  other  histories,  and  which,  I  am  sorry  to  think, 
so  much  of  the  well-meant  instruction  we  receive  in  our 
youth  tends  to  destroy,  my  feeling  about  such  a  work- 
shop grew  stronger  and  stronger,  till  at  last  I  never  could 
go  near  enough  to  see  the  shavings  lying  on  the  floor  of 
one,  without  a  spiritual  sensation  such  as  I  have  in  enter- 
ing an  old  church ;  which  sensation,  ever  since  having 
been  admitted  on  the  usual  conditions  to  a  Mohamme- 
dan mosque,  urges  me  to  pull  off,  not  only  my  hat,  but 
my  shoes  likewise.  And  the  feeling  has  grown  upon 
me,  till  now  it  seems  at  times  as  if  the  only  cure  in  the 
world  for  social   pride  would  be  to  go  for  five   silent 


42  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

minutes  into  a  carpenter's  shop.  How  one  can  think  o\ 
himself  as  above  his  neighbours,  within  sight,  sound,  oi 
smell  of  one,  I  fear  I  am  getting  almost  unable  to  ima- 
gine ,  and  one  ought  not  to  get  out  of  sympathy  with  the 
wrong.  Only  as  I  am  growing  old  now,  it  does  not 
matter  so  much,  for  I  daresay  my  time  will  not  be  very 
long. 

So  I  drew  near  to  the  shop,  feeling  as  if  the  Lord  might 
be  at  work  there  at  one  of  the  benches.  And  when  I 
reached  the  door,  there  was  my  pale-faced  hearer  of  the 
Sunday  afternoon,  sawing  a  board  for  a  coffin-lid. 

As  my  shadow  fell  across  and  darkened  his  work,  he 
lifted  his  head  and  saw  me. 

I  could  not  altogether  understand  the  expression  of 
his  countenance  as  he  stood  upright  from  his  labour  and 
touched  his  old  hat  with  rather  a  proud  than  a  courteous 
gesture.  And  I  could  not  believe  that  he  was  glad  to 
see  me,  although  he  laid  down  his  saw  and  advanced  to 
the  door.  It  was  the  gentleman  in  him,  not  the  man, 
that  sought  to  make  me  welcome,  hardly  caring  whether 
I  saw  through  the  ceremony  or  not  True,  there  was  a 
smile  on  his  lips,  but  the  smile  of  a  man  who  cherishes 
a  secret  grudge ;  of  one  who  does  not  altogether  dislike 
you,  but  who  has  a  claim  upon  you — say,  for  an  apology, 
of  which  claim  he  doubts  whether  you  know  the  exist- 
ence. So  the  smile  seemed  tightened,  and  stopped  just 
when  it  got  half-way  to  its  width,  and  was  about  to  be* 
come  hearty  and  begin  to  shine. 

"  May  I  come  in  1 "  I  said. 

"  Come  in,  sir,"  he  answered. 


THK    COFFIN.  43 


"  I  am  glad  I  have  happened  to  come  upon  you  by 
accident,"  I  said. 

He  smiled  as  if  he  did  not  quite  believe  in  the  acci- 
dent, and  considered  it  a  part  of  the  play  between  us 
that  I  should  pretend  it.     I  hastened  to  add — 

"I  was  wandering  about  the  place,  making  some 
acquaintance  with  it,  and  with  my  friends  in  it,  when 
I  came  upon  you  quite  unexpectedly.  You  know  I 
saw  you  in  church  on  Sunday  afternoon." 

"  I  know  you  saw  me,  sir,"  he  answered,  with  a  motion 
as  if  to  return  to  his  work ;  "  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
don't  go  to  church  very  often." 

I  did  not  quite  know  whether  to  take  this  as  proceed- 
.  ing  from  an  honest  fear  of  being  misunderstood,  or  from 
a  sense  of  being  in  general  superior  to  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  But  I  felt  that  it  would  be  of  no  good  to  pursue 
the  inquiry  directly.  I  looked  therefore  for  something 
to  say. 

"Ah!  your  work  is  not  always  a  pleasant  one,"  I  said, 
associating  the  feelings  of  which  I  have  already  spoken 
with  the  facts  before  me,  and  looking  at  the  coffin,  the 
lower  part  of  which  stood  nearly  finished  upon  trestles 
on  the  floor. 

"  Well,  there  are  unpleasant  things  in  all  trades,"  he 
answered.  "But  it  does  not  matter,"  he  added,  with 
an  increase  of  bitterness  in  his  smile. 

*l  didn't  mean,"  I  said,  "that  the  work  was  un- 
pleasant — only  sad.  It  must  always  be  painful  to  make 
a  coffin." 

"A  joiner  gets  used  to  it,  sir,  as  you  do  to  the  funeral 


44  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

service.  But,  for  my  part,  1  don't  see  why  it  should  be 
considered  so  unhappy  for  a  man  to  be  buried.  This 
isn't  such  a  good  job,  after  all,  this  world,  sir,  you  must 
allow." 

"  Neither  is  that  coffin,"  said  I,  as  if  by  a  sudden  in- 
spiration. 

The  man  seemed  taken  aback,  as  Old  Rogers  might 
have  said.  He  looked  at  the  coffin  and  then  looked 
at  me. 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause,  which  no 
doubt  seemed  longer  both  to  him  and  to  me  than  it 
would  have  seemed  to  any  third  person,  "  I  don't  see 
anything  amiss  with  the  coffin.  I  don't  say  it  '11  last  till 
doomsday,  as  the  gravedigger  says  to  Hamlet,  because 
I  don't  know  so  much  about  doomsday  as  some  people 
pretend  to ;  but  you  see,  sir,  it 's  not  finished  yet." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said;  "that's  just  what  I  meant. 
You  thought  I  was  hasty  in  my  judgment  of  your  coffin; 
whereas  I  only  said  of  it  knowingly  what  you  said  of  the 
world  thoughtlessly.  How  do  you  know  that  the  world 
is  finished  any  more  than  your  coffin?  And  how  dare 
you  then  say  that  it  is  a  bad  job  1 " 

The  same  respectfully  scornful  smile  passed  over  his 
face,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Ah !  it 's  your  trade  to  talk 
that  way,  so  I  must  not  be  too  hard  upon  you." 

"At  any  rate,  sir,"  he  said,  "whoever  made  it  has 
taken  long  enough  about  it,  a  person  would  think,  to 
finish  anything  he  ever  meant  to  finish." 

"  One  day  is  with  the  Lord  as  a  thousand  years,  and 
a  thousand  years  as  one  day,'  I  said. 


THE    COFFIN.  45 


"That's  supposing,"  he  answered,  "that  the  Lord  did 
make  the  world.  For  my  part,  I  am  half  of  a  mind  that 
the  Lord  didn't  make  it  at  all." 

*'  1  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  I  answered. 

Hereupon  I  found  that  we  had  changed  places  a  little. 
He  looked  up  at  me.  The  smile  of  superiority  was  no 
longer  there,  and  a  puzzled  questioning,  which  might 
ir  dicate  either  "  Who  would  have  expected  that  from 
you  ? "  or,  "  What  can  he  mean  1 "  or  both  at  once,  had 
taken  its  place.  I,  for  my  part,  knew  that  on  the  scale 
of  the  man's  judgment  I  had  risen  nearer  to  his  own 
level.  As  he  said  nothing,  however,  and  I  was  in  danger 
of  being  misunderstood,  I  proceeded  at  once. 

"  Of  course  it  seems  to  me  better  that  you  should  not 
believe  God  had  done  a  thing,  than  that  you  should  be- 
lieve He  had  not  done  it  well ! " 

"  Ah  !  I  see,  sir.  Then  you  will  allow  there  is  some 
room  for  doubting  whether  He  made  the  wodd  at  all  1 " 

"Yes;  for  I  do  not  think  an  honest  man,  as  you  seem 
to  me  to  be,  would  be  able  to  doubt  without  any  room 
whatever.  That  would  be  only  for  a  fool.  But  it  is  just 
possible,  as  we  are  not  perfectly  good  ourselves — you  '11 
allow  that,  won't  you  1 " 

"  That  I  will,  sir ;  God  knows." 

"  Well,  I  say — as  we  're  not  quite  good  ourselves,  it 's 
just  possible  that  things  may  be  too  good  for  us  to  do 
them  the  justice  of  believing  in  them." 

"  But  there  are  things,  you  must  allow,  so  plainly 
wrong ! " 

"  So  much  so,  both  in  the  world  and  in  myself,  that  it 


46  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

would  be  to  me  torturing  despair  to  believe  that  God 
did  not  make  the  world ;  'for  then,  how  would  it  ever  be 
put  right?  Therefore  I  prefer  the  theory  that  He  has 
not  done  making  it  yet." 

*'  But  wouldn't  you  say,  sir,  that  God  might  have 
managed  it  without  so  many  slips  in  the  making  as  your 
way  would  suppose  ?  I  should  think  myself  a  bad  work- 
man if  I  worked  after  that  fashion." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  there  are  any  slips.  You  know 
you  are  making  a  coffin ;  but  are  you  sure  you  know 
what  God  is  making  of  the  world?" 

"  That  I  can't  tell,  of  course,  nor  anybody  else." 

**  Then  you  can't  say  that  what  looks  like  a  slip  is 
really  a  slip,  either  in  the  design  or  in  the  workmanship. 
You  do  not  know  what  end  He  has  in  view ;  and  you 
may  find  some  day  that  those  slips  were  just  the  straight 
road  to  that  very  end." 

"  Ah  !  maybe.     But  you  can't  be  sure  of  it,  you  see." 

**  Perhaps  not,  in  the  way  you  mean  ;  but  sure  enough, 
for  all  that,  to  try  it  upon  life — to  order  my  way  by  it, 
and  so  find  that  it  works  well.  And  I  find  that  it  ex- 
plains everything  that  comes  near  it  You  know  that 
no  engineer  would  be  satisfied  with  his  engine  on  paper, 
nor  with  any  proof  whatever  except  seeing  how  it  will 
go." 

He  made  no  reply. 

It  is  a  principle  of  mine  never  to  push  anything  over 
the  edge.  When  I  am  successful  in  any  argument,  my 
one  dread  is  of  humiliating  my  opponent.  Indeed  I 
cannot  bear  it     It  humiliates  me.     And  if  you  want 


THE    COFFIN.  47 


him  to  think  about  anything,  you  must  leave  him  room, 
and  not  give  him  such  associations  with  the  question 
that  the  very  idea  of  it  will  be  painful  and  irritating  to 
him.  Let  him  have  a  nand  in  the  convincing  of  himself. 
I  have  been  surprised  sometimes  to  see  my  own  argu- 
ments come  up  fresh  and  green,  when  I  thought  the 
fowls  of  the  air  had  devoured  them  up.  When  a  man 
reasons  for  victory  and  not  for  the  truth  in  the  other  soul, 
he  is  sure  of  just  one  ally,  the  same  that  Faust  had  in 
fighting  Gretchen's  brother — that  is,  the  Devil.  But 
God  and  good  men  are  against  him.  So  I  never  follow 
up  a  victory  of  that  kind,  for,  as  I  said,  the  defeat  of 
the  intellect  is  not  the  object  in  fighting  with  the  sword 
of  the  Spirit,  but  the  acceptance  of  the  heart.  In  this 
case,  therefore,  I  drew  back. 

*'  May  I  ask  for  whom  you  are  making  that  coffin]" 

**  For  a  sister  of  my  own,  sir." 

*'  I  'm  sorry  to  hear  that." 

"  There 's  no  occasion.  I  can't  say  1  'm  soriy,  though 
she  was  one  of  the  best  women  I  ever  knew." 

"  Why  are  you  not  sorry,  then  ?  Life 's  a  good  thing 
in  the  main,  you  will  allow." 

"  Yes,  when  it 's  endurable  at  all.  But  to  have  a  brute 
of  a  husband  coming  home  at  any  hour  of  the  night  or 
morning,  drunk  upon  the  money  she  had  eained  by  hard 
work,  was  enough  to  take  more  of  the  shine  out  ol 
things  than  church-going  on  Sundays  could  put  in  again, 
regular  as  she  was,  poor  woman !  I  'iii  as  glad  as  hei 
brute  of  a  husband,  that  she  's  out  of  his  way  at  last." 

"  How  do  you  know  he 's  glad  oi  it  J" 


48  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  He  's  been  drunk  every  night  since  she  died." 

"  Then  he 's  the  worse  for  losing  her?" 

"  He  may  well  be.  Crying  like  a  hypocrite,  too,  over 
his  own  work  ! " 

"  A  fool  he  must  be.  A  hypocrite,  perhaps  not.  A 
hypocrite  is  a  terrible  name  to  give.  Perhaps  her  death 
will  do  him  good." 

"  He  doesn't  deserve  to  be  done  any  good  to.  I 
would  have  made  this  coffin  for  him  with  a  world  of 
pleasure." 

"  I  never  found  that  I  deserved  anything,  not  even  a 
coffin.  The  only  claim  that  I  could  ever  lay  to  any- 
thing was  that  I  was  very  much  in  want  of  it." 

The  old  smile  returned — as  much  as  to  say,  "That's 
your  little  gSme  in  the  church."  But  I  resolved  to  try 
nothing  more  with  him  at  present ;  and  indeed  was  sorry 
that  I  had  started  the  new  question  at  all,  partly  because 
thus  I  had  again  given  him  occasion  to  feel  that  he  knew 
better  than  I  did,  which  was  not  good  either  for  him  or 
for  me  in  our  relation  to  each  other. 

"  This  has  been  a  fine  old  room  once,"  I  said,  look- 
ing round  the  workshop. 

*'  You  can  see  it  wasn't  a  workshop  always,  sir. 
Many  a  grand  dinner-party  has  sat  down  in  this  room 
when  it  was  in  its  glory.  Look  at  the  chimney-piece 
there." 

"  I  have  been  looking  at  it,"  I  said,  going  nearer. 

"  It  represents  the  four  quarters  of  the  world,  you  see." 

I  saw  strange  figures  of  meif  and  women,  one  on  a 
kneeling  cameL  one  on  a  crawling  crocodile,  and  othera 


THE    COFFIN.  49 


differently  mounted ;  with  various  besides  of  Nature's 
bizarre  productions  creeping  and  flying  in  stone-carving 
over  the  huge  fire-place,  in  which,  in  place  of  a  fire, 
stood  several  new  and  therefore  brilliantly  red  cart- 
wheels. The  sun  shone  through  the  upper  part  of  a 
high  window,  of  which  many  of  the  panes  were  broken, 
right  in  upon  the  cart  wheels,  which,  glowing  thus  in  the 
chimney  under  the  sombre  chimney-piece,  added  to  the 
grotesque  look  of  the  whole  assemblage  of  contrasts. 
The  coffin  and  the  carpenter  stood  in  the  twilight  occa- 
sioned by  the  sharp  division  of  light  made  by  a  lofty 
wing  of  the  house  that  rose  flanking  the  other  window. 
The  room  was  still  wainscotted  in  panels,  which,  I  pre- 
sume, for  the  sake  of  the  more  light  required  for  handi- 
craft, had  been  washed  all  over  with  white.  At  the  level 
of  labour  they  were  broken  in  many  places.  Somehow 
or  other,  the  whole  reminded  me  of  Albert  Diirer's 
"  Melancholia." 

Seeing  I  was  interested  in  looking  about  his  shop,  my 
new  friend — for  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  we  should 
be  friends  before  all  was  over,  and  so  began  to  count 
him  one  already — resumed  the  conversation.  He  had 
never  taken  up  the  dropped  thread  of  it  before. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said;  "the  owners  of  the  place  little 
thought  it  would  come  to  this — the  deals  growing  into  a 
coffin  there  on  the  spot  where  the  grand  dinner  was  laid 
for  them  and  their  guests  !  But  there  is  another  thing 
about  it  that  is  odder  still ;  my  son  is  the  last  male  " 

Here  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  his  face  grew  very  red. 
4s  suddenly  he  resumed — 

P 


50  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


"I'm  not  a  gentleman,  sir;  but  I  will  tell  the  truth. 
Curse  it ! — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir," — and  here  the  old 
smile — "  I  don't  think  I  got  that  from  their  side  of  the 
house. — My  son's  not  the  last  male  descendant." 

Here  followed  another  pause. 

As  to  the  imprecation,  I  knew  better  than  to  take  any 
.notice  of  a  mere  expression  of  excitement  under  a  sense 
of  some  injury  with  which  I  was  not  yet  acquainted.  If 
I  could  get  his  feelings  right  in  regard  to  other  and 
more  important  things,  a  reform  in  that  matter  would 
soon  follow;  whereas  to  make  a  mountain  of  a  mole- 
hill would  be  to  put  that  very  mountain  between  him 
and  me.  Nor  would  I  ask  him  any  questions,  lest  I 
should  just  happen  to  ask  him  the  wrong  one ;  for  this 
parishioner  of  mine  evidently  wanted  careful  handling, 
if  I  would  do  him  any  good  And  it  will  not  do  any 
man  good  to  fling  even  the  Bible  in  his  face.  Nay,  a 
roll  of  bank-notes,  which  would  be  more  evidently  a 
good  to  most  men,  would  carry  insult  with  it  if  presented 
in  that  manner.  You  cannot  expect  people  to  accept 
before  they  have  had  a  chance  of  seeing  what  the  offered 
gift  really  is. 

After  a  pause,  therefore,  the  carpenter  had  once  more 
to  recommence,  or  let  the  conversation  lie.  I  stood  in 
a  waiting  attitude.  And  whjle  I  looked  at  him,  I  was 
reminded  of  some  one  else  whon^  I  knew — with  whom; 
too,  I  had  pleasant  associations — though  I  could  not  in 
the  least  determine  who  that  one  might  be. 

"  It  'i?  very  foolish  of  me  to  talk  sp  to  a  stranger,"  he 
resumed. 


THE    COFFIN.  5I 


"  It  is  very  kind  and  friendly  of  you,"  I  said,  stiii 
tareful  to  make  no  advances.  "And  you  yourself  be« 
long  to  the  old  family  that  once  lived  in  this  old  house?" 

*'  It  would  be  no  boast  to  tell  the  truth,  sir,  even  if  it 
were  a  credit  to  me,  which  it  is  not.  That  family  has 
been  nothing  but  a  curse  to  ours." 

I  noted  that  he  spoke  of  that  family  as  different  from 
his,  and  yet  implied  that  he  belonged  to  it.  The  ex- 
planation would  come  in  time.  But  the  man  was  again 
silent,  planing  away  at  half  the  lid  of  his  sister's  coffin. 
And  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  closed  mouth 
meant  to  utter  nothing  more  on  this  occasion. 

"  I  am  sure  there  must  be  many  a  story  to  tell  about 
chis  old  place,  if  only  there  were  any  one  to  tell  them," 
I  said  at  last,  looking  round  the  room  once  more. — "  I 
think  I  see  the  remains  of  paintings  on  the  ceiling." 

"  You  are  sharp-eyed,  sir.  My  father  says  they  were 
plain  enough  in  his  young  days." 

"  Is  your  father  alive,  then  V 

"  That  he  is,  sir,  and  hearty  too,  though  he  seldom 
goes  out  of  doors  now.  Will  you  go  up  stairs  and  see 
him?  He's  past  ninety,  sir.  He  has  plenty  of  stories 
to  tell  about  the  old  place — before  it  began  to  fall  to 
pieces  like." 

"  I  won't  go  to-day,"  I  said,  partly  because  I  waited 
to  be  at  home  to  receive  any  one  who  might  call,  and 
partly  to  secure  an  excuse  for  calling  again  upon  the 
carpenter  sooner  than  I  should  otherwise  have  liked  tc 
do.  "  I  expect  visitors  myself,  and  it  is  time  I  were  af 
home.     Good  morning." 


52  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Good  morning,  sir." 

And  away  home  I  went  with  a  new  wonder  in  my 
brain.  The  man  did  not  seem  unknown  to  me.  I  mean, 
the  state  of  his  mind  woke  no  feeUng  of  perplexity  in 
me.  I  was  certain  of  understanding  it  thoroughly  when 
I  had  learned  something  of  his  history ;  for  that  such  a 
man  must  have  a  history  of  his  own  was  rendered  only 
the  more  probable  from  the  fact  that  he  knew  something 
of  the  history  of  his  forefathers,  though,  indeed,  there 
are  some  men  who  seem  to  have  no  other.  It  was 
strange,  however,  to  think  of  that  man  working  away  at 
a  trade  in  the  very  house  in  which  such  ancestors  had 
eaten  and  drunk,  and  married  and  given  in  marriage. 
The  house  and  family  had  declined  together — in  out- 
ward appearance  at  least ;  for  it  was  quite  possible  both 
might  have  risen  in  the  moral  and  spiritual  scale  in 
proportion  as  they  sank  in  the  social  one.  And  if 
any  of  my  readers  are  at  first  inclined  to  think  that  this 
could  hardly  be,  seeing  that  the  man-  was  little,  if  any- 
thing, better  than  an  infidel,  I  would  just  like  to  hold 
one  minute's  conversation  with  them  on  that  subject. 
A  man  may  be  on  the  way  to  the  truth,  just  in  virtue  of 
his  doubling.  I  will  tell  you  what  Lord  Bacon  says, 
and  of  all  writers  of  English  I  delight  in  him  :  "  So  it  is 
in  contemplation :  if  a  man  will  begin  with  certainties, 
he  shall  end  in  doubts ;  but  if  he  will  be  content  to 
begin  with  doubts,  he  shall  end  in  certainties."  Now  I 
could  not  tell  the  kind  or  character  of  this  man's  doubt; 
but  it  was  evidently  real  and  not  affected  doubt ;  and 
that  was  much  in  his  favour.     And  I  could  see  that  he 


THE    COFFIN.  53 


was  a  thinking  man ;  just  one  of  the  sort  I  thought  I 
should  get  on  with  in  time,  because  he  was  honest 
— notwithstanding  that  unpleasant  smile  of  his,  which 
did  irritate  me  a  little,  and  partly  piqued  me  into  the 
determination  to  get  the  better  of  the  man,  if  I  possibly 
could,  by  making  friends  with  him.  At  all  events,  here 
was  another  strange  parishioner.  And  who  could  it  be 
tliat  he  war  like  i 


CHAPTER  V. 

VISITORS  FROM  THE  HALL. 


[HEN  I  came  near  my  own  gate,  I  saw  that  it 
was  open ;  and  when  I  came  in  sight  of  my 
own  door,  I  found  a  carriage  standing  be- 
fore it,  and  a  footman  ringing  the  bell.  It 
was  an  old-fashioned  carriage,  with  two  white  horses  in 
it,  yet  whiter  by  age  than  by  nature.  They  looked  as  if 
no  coachman  could  get  more  than  three  miles  an  hour 
out  of  them,  they  were  so  fat  and  knuckle-kneed.  But 
my  attention  could  not  rest  long  on  the  horses,  and 
I  reached  the  door  just  as  my  housekeeper  was  pro- 
nouncing me  absent  There  were  two  ladies  in  th^ 
carriage,  one  old  and  one  young. 

"  Ah,  here  is  Mr  Walton !"  said  the  old  lady,  in  a 
serene  voice,  with  a  clear  hardness  in  its  tone ;  and  I 
held  out  my  hand  to  aid  her  descent.  She  had  pulled 
ofif  her  glove  to  get  a  card  out  of  her  card-case,  and  so 
put  the  tips  of  two  old  fingers,  worn  very  smooth,  as  if 


VISITORS    FROM    THE    HALL.  55 

polished  with  feeling  what  things  were  like,  upon  the 
palm  of  my  hand.  I  then  offered  my  hand  to  her  com- 
panion, a  girl  apparently  about  fourteen,  who  took  a 
hearty  hold  of  it,  and  jumped  down  beside  her  with  a 
smile.  As  I  followed  them  into  the  house,  I  took  their 
card  from  the  housekeeper's  hand,  and  read,  Mrs  Old- 
castle  and  Miss  Gladwyn. 

I  confess  here  to  my  reader,  that  these  are  not  really 
the  names  I  read  on  the  card.  I  made  these  up  this 
minute.  But  the  names  of  the  persons  of  humble  posi- 
tion in  my  story  are  their  real  names.  And  my  reason 
for  making  the  difference  will  be  plain  enough.  You 
can  never  find  out  my  friend  Old  Rogers;  you  might 
find  out  the  people  who  called  on  me  in  their  carriage 
with  the  ancient  white  horses. 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  drawing-room,  I  said 
to  the  old  lady — 

"  I  remember  seeing  you  in  church  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing.    It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  call  so  soon." 

"You  will  always  see  me  in  church,"  she  returned, 
with  a  stiff  bow,  and  an  expansion  of  deadness  on  her 
face,  which  I  interpreted  into  an  assertion  of  dignity,  re 
suiting  from  the  iriiplied  possibiHty  that  I  might  have 
passed  her  over  in  my  congregation,  or  might  have  for- 
gotten her  after  not  passing  her  over. 

"  Except  when  you  have  a  headache,  grannie,"  said 
Miss  Gladwyn,  with  an  arch  look  first  at  her  grand- 
mother, and  then  at  me.  "  Grannie  has  bad  headaches 
sometimes." 

The  deadness  melted  a  little  from  Mrs  Oldcastle's 


56  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

face,  as  she  turned  with  half  a  smile  to  her  grandchild, 
and  said — 

"  Ves,  Pet.  But  you  know  that  cannot  be  an  interest- 
ing fact  to  Mr  Walton." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs  Oldcastle,"  I  said.  "  A 
clergyman  ought  to  know  something,  and  the  more  the 
better,  of  the  troubles  of  his  flock.  Sympathy  is  one  of 
the  first  demands  he  ought  to  be  able  to  meet. — I  know 
what  a  headache  is." 
^C^-  The  former  expression,  or  rather  non-expression,  re- 
turned ;  this  time  unacccfmpanied  by  a  bow. 

"  I  trust,  Mr  Walton,  I  trust  I  am  above  any  morbid 
necessity  for  sympathy.  But,  as  you  say,  amongst  the 
poor  of  your  flock, — it  is  very  desirable  that  a  clergyman 
should  be  able  to  sympathise." 

*'  It 's  quite  true  what  grannie  says,  Mr  Walton,  though 
you  mightn't  think  it.  When  she  has  a  headache,  she 
shdts  herself  up  in  her  own  room,  and  doesn't  even  let 
me  come  near  her — nobody  but  Sarah ;  and  how  she  can 
prefer  her  to  me,  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

And  here  the  girl  pretended  to  pout,  but  with  a  sparkle 
in  her  bright  gray  eye. 

"  The  subject  is  not  interesting  to  me.  Pet.  Pray,  Mr 
Walton,  is  it  a  point  of  conscience  witii  you  to  wear  the 
surplice  when  you  preach  1 " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  answered.  "  I  think  I  like  it 
rather  better  on  the  whole.  But  that 's  not  why  I  wear 
it." 

"Never  mind  grannie,  Mr  Walton,  /think  the  sur- 
plice is  lovely.     I'm  sure  it's  much  liker  the  waj   v^ 


VISITORS    FROM    THE    HALL.  5J 

shall  be  dressed  in  heaven,  though  I  don't  think  I  shall 
ever  get  there,  if  I  must  read  the  good  books  grannie 
reads." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  necessary  to  read  any  good 
books  but  the  good  book,"  I  said. 

"  There,  grannie  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  GladAvyn,  trium* 
phantly.  "  I  'm  so  glad  I  've  got  Mr  Walton  on  my 
sidel  "• 

*'  Mr  Walton  is  not  so  old  as  I  am,  my  dear,  and  has 
much  to  learn  yet." 

I  could  not  help  feeling  a  little  annoyed,  (which  was 
very  foolish,  I  know,)  and  saying  to  myself,  "  If  it 's  to 
make  me  like  you,  I  had  rather  not  learn  any  more;" 
but  I  said  nothing  aloud,  of  course. 

"  Have  you  got  a  headache  to-day,  grannie  ? " 

"  No,  Pet.  Be  quiet.  I  wish  to  ask  Mr  Walton  why 
he  wears  the  surplice." 

"  Simply,"  I  replied,  "  because  I  was  told  the  people 
had  been  accustomed  to  it  under  my  predecessor." 

"  But  that  can  be  no  good  reason  for  doing  what  is 
not  right — that  people  have  been  accustomed  to  it." 

"  But  I  don't  allow  that  it 's  not  right.  I  think  it  is  a 
matter  of  no  consequence  whatever.  If  I  find  that  the 
people  don't  like  it,  I  will  give  it  up  with  pleasure." 

"  You  ought  to  have  principles  of  your  own,  Mr 
Walton." 

"  I  hope  I  have.  And  one  of  them  is,  not  to  make 
mountains  of  molehills ;  for  a  molehill  is  not  a  mountain. 
A  man  ought  to  have  too  much  to  do  in  obeying  his  con- 
science and  keeping  his  soul's  garments  clean,  to  mind 


58  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEICIIEOU R HOOD. 

whether  he  wears  black  or  white  when  telling  his  flock 
that  God  loves  them,  and  that  they  will  never  be  happy 
till  they  believe  it." 

"  They  may  believe  that  too  soon." 

"  I  don't  think  any  one  can  believe  the  tnith  too 
soon." 

A  pause  followed,  during  which  it  became  evident  to 
me  that  Miss  Gladwyn  saw  fun  in  the  whole  affair,  and 
was  enjoying  it  thoroughly.  Mrs  Oldcastle's  face,  on 
the  contrary,  was  illegible.  She  resumed  in  a  measured 
still  voice,  which  she  meant  to  be  meek,  I  daresay,  but 
which  was  really  authoritative — 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr  Walton,  that  your  principles  are  so 
loose  and  unsettled.  You  will  see  my  honesty  in  saying 
so  when  you  find  that,  objecting  to  the  surplice,  as  I  do, 
on  Protestant  grounds,  I  yet  warn  you  against  making 
any  change  because  you  may  discover  that  your  parish- 
ioners are  against  it.  You  have  no  idea,  Mr  Walton, 
what  inroads  Radicalism,  as  they  call  it,  has  been  mak- 
ing in  this  neighbourhood.  It  is  quite  dreadful.  Every- 
body, down  to  the  poorest,  claiming  a  right  to  think  for 
himself,  and  set  his  betters  right !  There 's  one  worse 
than  any  of  the  rest — ^but  he 's  no  better  than  an  atheist 
— a  car[5enter  of  the  name  of  Weir,  always  talking  to  his 
neighbours  against  the  proprietors  and  the  magistr  ites, 
and  the  clergy  too,  Mr  Walton,  and  the  game-laws,  and 
what  not?  And  if  you  once  show  them  that  you  are 
afraid  of  them  by  going  a  step  out  of  your  way  for  f^ezr 
opinion  about  anything,  there  will  be  no  end  to  it;  for 
the  beginning  of  strife  is  like  the  letting  out  of  water,  as 


VISITORS    FROM    THE   HALL.  59 

you  know.  /  should  know  nothing  about  it,  but  tha» 
my  (laughter's  maid — I  came  to  hear  of  it  through  her— 
a  decent  girl  of  the  name  of  Rogers,  and  born  of  decent 
parents,  but  unfortunately  attached  to  the  son  of  one  ot 
your  churchwardens,  who  has  put  him  into  that  mill  on 
the  river  you  can  almost  see  from  here." 

"  Who  put  him  in  the  mill  1 " 

**  His  own  father,  to  whom  it  belongs." 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  a  very  good  match  for  her." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  and  for  him  too.  But  his  foolish  father 
thinks  the  match  below  him,  as  if  there  was  any  differ- 
ence between  the  positions  of  people  in  that  rank  of 
life !  Every  one  seems  striving  to  tread  on  the  heels  of 
every  one  else,  instead  of  being  content  with  the  station 
to  which  God  has  called  them.  I  am  content  with 
mine.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  putting  myself  there. 
Why  should  they  not  be  content  with  theirs  t  They 
need  to  be  taught  Christian  humility  and  respect  for 
their  superiors.  That's  the  virtue  most  wanted  at  pre- 
sent.    The  poor  have  to  look  up  to  the  rich  " 

"  That 's  right,  grannie !  And  the  rich  have  to  look 
down  on  the  poor." 

"  No,  my  dear.  I  did  not  say  that  The  rich  have 
to  be  h'nd  to  the  poor." 

"  But,  grannie,  why  did  you  marry  Mr  Oldcastle  1 " 

"  What  does  the  child  mean  ? " 

"  Uncle  Stoddart  says  you  refused  ever  so  many  offers 
when  you  were  a  girl." 

"  Uncle  Stoddart  has  no  business  to  be  talking  about 
such  things  to  a  chit  like  you,"  returned  the  grandmothei, 


6o  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

smiling,  however,  at  the  charge,  which  so  far  certainly 
contained  no  reproach. 

"And  grandpapa  was  the  ugliest  and  the  richest  oi 
them  all — wasn't  he,  grannie  1  and  Colonel  Markham 
the  handsomest  and  the  poorest  1 " 

A  flush  of  anger  crimsoned  the  old  lady's  pale  face. 
It  looked  dead  no  longer. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  she  said.     "  You  are  rude." 

And  Miss  Gladwyn  did  hold  her  tongue,  but  nothing 
else,  for  she  was  laughing  all  over. 

The  relation  between  these  two  was  evidently  a  very 
odd  one.  It  was  clear  that  Miss  Gladwyn  was  a  spoiled 
child,  though  I  could  not  help  thinking  her  very  nicely 
spoiled,  as  far  as  I  saw ;  and  that  the  old  lady  persisted 
in  regarding  her  as  a  cub,  although  her  claws  had  grown 
quite  long  enough  to  be  dangerous.  Certainly,  if  things 
went  on  thus,  it  was  pretty  clear  which  of  them  would 
soon  have  the  upper  hand,  for  grannie  was  vulnerable, 
and  Pet  was  not 

It  really  began  to  look  as  if  there  were  none  but 
characters  in  ray  parish.  I  began  to  think  it  must  be 
the  strangest  parish  in  England,  and  to  wonder  that  I 
had  never  heard  of  it  before.  "  Surely  it  must  be  in 
some  story-book  at  least ! "  I  said  to  myself. 

But  her  grand-daughter's  tiger-cat-play  drove  the  old 
lady  nearer  to  me.  She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand, 
saying,  Avith  some  kindness — 

"Take  my  advice,  my  dear  Mr  Walton,  and  don't 
make  too  much  of  your  poor,  or  they'll  soon  be  too 
much  for  you  to  manage. —  Come,  Pet :  it's  time  to  go 


VISITORS    FROM    THE    HALL.  6l 

home  to  lunch. — And  for  the  surplice,  take  your  own 
way  and  wear  it.     /shan't  say  anything  more  about  it." 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can  see  to  be  right  in  the  matter,* 
I  answered  as  gently  as  I  could ;  for  I  did  not  want  to 
quarrel  with  her,  although  I  thought  her  both  presump- 
tuous and  rude. 

"  I  'm  on  your  side,  Mr  Walton,"  said  the  girl,  with  a 
sweet  comical  smile,  as  she  squeezed  my  hand  once 
more. 

I  led  them  to  the  carriage,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
relief  that  I  saw  it  drive  off. 

The  old  lady  certainly  was  not  pleasant.  She  had  a 
white  smooth  face  over  which  the  skin  was  drawn  tight, 
gray  hair,  and  rather  lurid  hazel  eyes.  I  felt  a  repug- 
nance to  her  tht?t  was  hardly  to  be  accounted  for  by  her 
arrogance  to  me,  or  by  her  superciliousness  to  the  poor  ; 
although  either  would  have  accounted  for  much  of  it. 
For  I  confess  that  I  have  not  yet  learned  to  bear  pre- 
sumption and  rudeness  with  all  the  patience  and  forgive- 
ness with  which  I  ought  by  this  time  to  be  able  to  meet 
them.  And  as  to  the  poor,  I  am  afraid  I  was  always  in 
some  danger  of  being  a  partizan  of  theirs  against  the 
rich ;  and  that  a  clergyman  ought  never  to  be.  And 
indeed  the  poor  rich  have  more  need  of  the  care  of  the 
clergyman  than  the  others,  seeing  it  is  hardly  that  the 
rich  sliall  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  the 
poor  have  all  the  advantage  over  them  in  that  respect. 

*'  Still,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  there  must  be  some  good 
in  the  woman—  she  cannot  be  altogether  so  hard  as  she 
looks,  else   how   should   that   child   dare   to  take   tlie 


62  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


liberties  of  a  kitten  with  her?  She  doesn't  look  to  mt 
like  one  to  make  game  of !  However,  I  shall  knov/  a 
little  more  about  her  when  I  return  her  call,  and  I  will 
do  my  best  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  her." 

I  took  down  a  volume  of  Plato  to  comfort  me  after 
the  irritation  which  my  nerves  had  undergone,  and  sat 
down  in  an  easy-chair  beside  the  open  window  of  my 
study.  And  with  Plato  in  my  hand,  and  all  that  out- 
side my  window,  I  began  to  feel  as  if,  after  all,  a  man 
might  be  happy,  even  if  a  lady  had  refused  him.  And 
there  I  sat,  without  opening  my  favourite  vellum-bound 
volume,  gazing  out  on  the  happy  world,  whence  a  gentle 
;vind  came  in,  as  if  to  bid  me  welcome  with  a  kiss  to 
all  it  had  to  give  me.  And  then  I  thought  of  the  wind 
that  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  which  is  everywhere,  and  I 
quite  forgot  to  open  my  Plato,  and  thanked  God  for  the 
Life  of  life,  whose  story  and  whose  words  are  in  that 
best  of  books,  and  who  explains  everything  to  us,  and 
makes  us  love  Socrates  and  David  and  all  good  men 
ten  times  more ;  and  who  follows  no  law  but  the  law  of 
love,  and  no  fashion  but  the  will  of  God ;  for  where  did 
ever  one  read  words  less  like  moralising  and  more  like 
simple  earnestness  of  truth  than  all  those  of  Jesus? 
And  I  prayed  my  God  that  He  would  make  me  able  to 
speak  good  common  heavenly  sense  to  my  people,  and 
forgive  me  for  feeling  so  cross  and  proud  towards  the 
unhappy  old  lady — for  I  was  sure  she  was  not  happy — 
and  make  me  into  a  rock  which  swallowed  up  the  waves 
of  wrong  in  its  great  caverns,  and  never  threw  them  bcck 
to  swell  the  commotion  of  the  angry  sea  whence  they 


VISITORS    FROM    THE    HALL.  63 

came.  Ah,  what  it  would  be  actually  to  annihilate 
wrong  in  this  way ! — to  be  able  to  say,  it  shall  not  be 
wrong  against  me,  so  utterly  do  I  forgive  it !  How 
much  sooner,  then,  would  the  wrong-doer  repent,  and 
get  rid  of  the  wrong  from  his  side  also !  But  the  painful 
fact  will  show  itself,  not  less  curious  than  painful,  that 
it  is  more  difficult  to  forgive  small  wrongs  than  great 
ones.  Perhaps,  however,  the  forgiveness  of  the  great 
wrongs  is  not  so  true  as  it  seems.  For  do  we  not  think 
it  is  a  fine  thing  to  forgive  such  wrongs,  and  so  do  it 
rather  for  our  own  sakes  than  for  the  sake  of  the  wrong- 
doer ?  It  is  dreadful  not  to  be  good,  and  to  have  bad 
ways  inside  one. 

Such  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind.  And  once 
more  the  great  light  went  up  on  me  with  regard  to  my 
office,  namely,  that  just  because  I  was  parson  to  the 
parish,  I  must  not  be  the  person  to  myself  And  I 
prayed  God  to  keep  me  from  feeling  stung  and  proud, 
however  any  one  might  behave  to  me ;  for  all  my  value 
lay  in  being  a  sacrifice  to  Him  and  the  people. 

So  when  Mrs  Pearson  knocked  at  the  door,  and  told 
me  that  a  lady  and  gentleman  had  called,  I  shut  my 
book  which  I  had  just  opened,  and  kept  down  as  well 
as  I  could  the  rising  grumble  of  the  inhospitable  Eng- 
lishman, who  is  apt  to  be  forgetful  to  entertain  strangers, 
at  least  in  the  parlour  of  his  heart.  And  I  cannot  count 
it  perfect  hospitality  to  be  friendly  and  plentiful  towards 
those  whom  you  have  invited  to  your  house — what  thank 
has  a  man  in  that  % — while  you  are  cold  and  forbidding 
to  those  who  have  not  that  claim  on  your  attention, 


(4  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

That  is  not  to  be  perfect  as  our  Father  in  heaven  ia 
perfect.  By  all  naeans  tell  people,  when  you  are  busy 
about  something  that  must  be  done,  that  you  cannot 
spare  the  time  for  them  except  they  want  you  upon 
something  of  yet  more  pressing  necessity ;  but  tell  them, 
and  do  not  get  rid  of  them  by  the  use  of  the  instrument 
commonly  called  the  cold  shoulder.  It  is  a  wicked  instru- 
ment that,  and  ought  to  have  fallen  out  of  use  by  this 
time. 

I  went  and  received  Mr  and  Miss  Boulderstone,  and 
was  at  least  thus  far  rewarded — that  the  eerie  feeling,  as 
the  Scotcli  would  call  it,  which  I  had  about  my  parish, 
as  containing  none  but  characters,  and  therefore  not 
being  cannie,  was  entirely  removed.  At  least  there  was 
a  wholesome  leaven  in  it  of  honest  stupidity.  Please, 
kind  reader,  do  not  fancy  I  am  sneering.  I  declare  to 
you  I  think  a  sneer  the  worst  thing  God  has  not  made. 
A  curse  is  nothing  in  wickedness  to  it,  it  seems  to  me, 
I  do  mean  that  honest  stupidity  I  respect  heartily,  and 
do  assert  my  conviction  that  I  do  not  know  how  Eng- 
land at  least  would  get  on  without  it.  But  I  do  not 
mean  the  stupidity  that  sets  up  for  teaching  itself  to  its 
neighbour,  thinking  itself  wisdom  all  the  time.  That  I 
do  not  respect 

Mr  and  Miss  Boulderstone  left  me  a  little  fatigued, 
but  in  no  way  sore  or  grumbling.  They  only  sent  me 
back  with  additional  zest  to  my  Plato,  of  which  I  en- 
joyed a  hearty  page  or  two  before  any  one  else  arrived. 
The  only  other  visitors  I  had  that  day  were  an  old  sur- 
geon in  the  navy,  who  since  his  retirement  had  practised 


VISITORS    FROM    THE    HALL.  65 

for  many  years  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  was  still  at 
the  call  of  any  one  who  did  not  think  him  too  old- 
fashioned — for  even  here  the  fashions,  though  decidedly 
elderly  young  ladies  by  the  time  they  arrived,  held  their 
sway  none  the  less  imperiously — and  Mr  Brownrigg,  the 
churchwarden.     More  of  Dr  Duncan  by  and  by. 

Except  Mr  and  Miss  Boulderstone,  I  had  not  yet 
seen  any  common  people.  They  were  all  decidedly 
uncommon,  and,  as  regarded  most  of  them,  I  could  not 
think  I  should  have  any  difficulty  in  preaching  to  them. 
For,  whatever  place  a  man  may  give  to  preaching  in  the 
ritual  of  the  church — indeed  it  does  not  properly  belong 
to  the  ritual  at  all — it  is  yet  the  part  of  the  so-called 
service  with  which  his  personality  has  most  to  do.  To 
the  influences  of  the  other  parts  he  has  to  submit  him- 
self, ever  turning  the  openings  of  his  soul  towards  them, 
that  he  may  not  be  a  mere  praying-machine;  but  with 
the  sermon  it  is  otherwise.  That  he  produces.  For 
that  he  is  responsible.  And  therefore,  I  say,  it  was  a 
great  comfort  to  me  to  find  myself  amongst  a  people 
from  which  my  spirit  neither  shrunk  in  the  act  of  preach- 
ing, nor  with  regard  to  which  it  was  likely  to  feel  that  it 
was  beating  itself  against  a  stone  wall.  There  was  some 
good  in  preaching  to  a  man  like  Weir  or  Old  Rogers. 
Whether  there  was  any  good  in  preaching  to  a  woman 
like  Mrs  Oldcastle  I  did  not  know. 

The  evening  1  thought  I  might  give  to  my  books,  and 
thus  end  my  first  Monday  in  my  parish;  but,  as  I  said, 
Mr  Brownrigg,  the  churchwarden,  called  and  stayed  a 
whole  weary  hour,  talking  about  matters  quite   unin« 


66  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

teresting  to  any  who  may  hereafter  peruse  what  I  am 
now  writing.  Really  he  was  not  an  interesting  man : 
short,  broad,  stout,  red-faced,  with  an  immense  amount 
of  mental  inertia,  discharging  itself  in  constant  lingual 
activity  about  little  nothings.  Indeed,  when  there  was 
no  new  nothing  to  be  had,  the  old  nothing  would  do 
over  again  to  make  a  fresh  fuss  about.  But  if  you 
attempted  to  convey  a  thought  into  his  mind  which 
involved  the  moving  round  half  a  degree  from  where  he 
stood,  and  looking  at  the  matter  from  a  point  even  so 
far  new,  you  found  him  utterly,  totally  impenetrable,  as 
pachydermatous  as  any  rhinoceros  or  behemoth.  One 
other  corporeal  fact  I  could  not  help  observing,  was, 
that  his  cheeks  rose  at  once  from  the  collar  of  his  green 
coat,  his  neck  being  invisible,  from  the  hollow  between 
it  and  the  jaw  being  filled  up  to  a  level.  The  conforma- 
tion was  just  what  he  himself  delighted  to  contemplate 
in  his  pigs,  to  which  his  resemblance  was  greatly  in- 
creased by  unwearied  endeavours  to  keep  himself  close 
shaved. — I  could  not  help  feeling  anxious  about  his  son 
and  Jane  Rogers. — He  gave  a  quantity  of  gossip  about 
various  people,  evidently  anxious  that  I  should  regard 
them  as  he  regarded  them;  but  in  all  he  said  concerning 
them  I  could  scarcely  detect  one  point  of  significance  as 
to  character  or  history.  I  was  very  glad  indeed  v/hen 
the  waddling  of  hands — for  it  was  the  perfect  imbecility 
of  hand-shaking — was  over,  and  he  was  safely  out  of  the 
gate.  He  had  kept  me  standing  on  the  steps  for  full 
five  minutes,  and  I  did  not  feel  safe  from  him  till  I  was 
once  more  in  my  study  with  the  door  shut 


VISITORS    FROM    THE    HALL.  6j 

I  am  not  going  to  try  my  reader's  patience  with  any- 
thing of  a  more  detailed  account  of  my  introduction  to 
my  various  parishioners.  I  shall  mention  them  only  as 
they  come  up  in  the  course  of  my  story.  Before  many 
days  had  passed  I  had  found  out  my  poor,  who,  I 
thought,  must  be  somewhere,  seeing  the  Lord  had  said 
we  should  have  them  with  us  always.  There  was  a 
workhouse  in  the  village,  but  there  were  not  a  great 
many  in  it;  for  the  poor  were  kindly  enough  handled  who 
belonged  to  the  place,  and  were  not  too  severely  com- 
pelled to  go  into  the  house ;  though,  I  believe,  in  this 
house  they  would  have  been  more  comfortable  than 
they  were  in  their  own  houses. 

I  cannot  imagine  a  much  greater  misfortune  for  a 
mar.,  not  to  say  a  clergyman,  than  not  to  know,  or 
knowing,  not  to  minister  to  any  of  the  poor.  And  I 
did  not  feel  that  I  knew  in  the  least  where  I  was  until  I 
had  found  out  and  conversed  with  almost  the  whole  of 
mine. 

After  I  had  done  so,  I  began  to  think  it  better  to 
return  Mrs  Oldcastle's  visit,  though  I  felt  greatly  dis- 
inclined to  encounter  that  tight-skinned  nose  again,  and 
that  mouth  whose  smile  had  no  light  in  it,  except  when 
it  responded  to  some  nonsense  of  her  grand-daughter's. 


CHAPTER  VX 

OLDCASTLE   HALL. 

|BOUT  noon,  on  a  lovely  autumn  day,  I  set 
out  for  Oldcastle  Hall.  The  keenness  of 
the  air  had  melted  away  with  the  heat  of  the 
sun,  yet  still  the  air  was  fresh  and  invigorat- 
ing. Can  any  one  tell  me  why  it  is  that,  when  the  earth 
is  renewing  her  youth  in  the  spring,  man  should  feel 
feeble  and  low-spirited,  and  gaze  with  bowed  head, 
though  pleased  heart,  on  the  crocuses ;  whereas,  on  the 
contrary,  in  the  autumn,  when  nature  is  dying  for  the 
Avinter,  he  feels  strong  and  hopeful,  holds  his  head  erect, 
and  walks  with  a  vigorous  step,  though  the  flaunting 
dahlias  discourage  him  greatly?  I  do  not  ask  for  the 
physical  causes  :  those  I  might  be  able  to  find  out  for 
myself;  but  I  ask,  Where  is  the  Tightness  and  fitness  in 
the  thing]  Should  not  man  and  nature  go  together  in 
this  world  which  was  made  for  man — not  for  science, 
but  for  man]    Perhaps  I  have  some  glimmerings  of 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  69 


where  the  answer  lies.  Perhaps  "  I  see  a  cherub  that 
sees  it."  And  in  many  of  our  questions  we  have  to  be 
content  with  such  an  approximation  to  an  answer  as 
this.  And  for  my  part  I  am  content  with  this.  With 
less,  I  am  not  content. 

Whatever  that  answer  may  be,  I  walked  over  the  old 
Gothic  bridge  with  a  heart  strong  enough  to  meet  Mrs 
Oldcastle  without  flinching.  I  might  have  to  quarrel 
with  her — I  could  not  tell :  she  certainly  was  neither 
safe  nor  wholesome.  But  this  I  was  sure  of,  that  I 
would  not  quarrel  with  her  without  being  quite  certain 
that  I  ought.  I  wish  it  were  never  one's  duty  to  quar- 
rel with  anybody  :  I  do  so  hate  it.  But  not  to  do  it 
sometimes  is  to  smile  in  the  devil's  face,  and  that  no 
one  ought  to  do.  However,  I  had  not  to  quarrel  this 
time. 

The  woods  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  from  my 
house,  towards  which  I  was  now  walking,  were  of  the 
most  sombre  rich  colour — sombre  and  rich,  like  a  life 
that  has  laid  up  treasure  in  heaven,  locked  in  a  casket 
of  sorrow.  I  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  them  through 
the  village,  and  approached  the  great  iron  gate  with  the 
antediluvian  monsters  on  the  top  of  its  stone  pillars. 
And  awful  monsters  they  were — are  still !  I  see  the  tail 
of  one  of  them  at  this  very  moment.  But  they  let  ma 
thiough  very  quietly,  notwithstanding  their  evil  looks  .  I 
thought  they  were  saying  to  each  other  across  the  top  of 
the  gate,  "  Never  mind ;  he  '11  catch  it  soon  enough." 
But,  as  I  said,  I  did  not  catch  it  that  day ;  and  I  could 
not  have  caught  it  that  day ;  it  was  too  lovely  a  day  to 


70  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

catch  any  hurt  even  from  that  most  hurtful  of  all  beings 
under  the  sun,  an  unwomanly  woman. 

I  wandered  up  the  long  winding  road,  through  the 
woods  which  I  had  remarked  flanking  the  meadow  on 
my  first  walk  up  the  river.  These  woods  smelt  so 
sweetly — their  dead  and  dying  leaves  departing  in  sweet 
odours — that  they  quite  made  up  for  the  absence  of  the 
flowers.  And  the  wind — no,  there  was  no  wind — there 
was  only  a  memory  of  wind  that  woke  now  and  then  in 
the  bosom  of  the  wood,  shook  down  a  few  leaves,  like 
the  thoughts  tliat  flutter  away  in  sighs,  and  then  was  still 
again. 

I  am  getting  old,  as  I  told  you,  my  friends.  (See 
there,  you  seem  my  friends  already.  Do  not  despise  an 
old  man  because  he  cannot  help  loving  people  he  never 
saw  or  even  heard  of)  I  say  I  am  getting  old — (is  it 
but  or  therefore  /  I  do  not  know  which) — but,  therefore, 
I  shall  never  forget  that  one  autumn  day  in  those  grandly 
fading  woods. 

Up  the  slope  of  the  hillside  they  rose  like  one  great 
rainbow-billow  of  foliage — bright  yellow,  red-rusty  and 
bright  fading  green,  all  kinds  and  shades  of  brown  and 
purple.  Multitudes  of  leaves  lay  on  the  sides  of  the 
path,  so  many  that  I  betook  myself  to  my  old  childish 
amusement  of  walking  in  them  without  lifting  my  feet, 
driving  whole  armies  of  them  with  ocean-like  rustling 
before  me.  I  did  not  do  so  as  I  came  back.  I  walked 
in  the  middle  of  the  way  then,  and  I  remember  stepping 
over  many  single  leaves,  in  a  kind  of  mechanico-merciful 
way,  as  if  tliey  had  been  living  creatures — as  indeed  who 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  7I 

can  tell  but  they  are,  only  they  must  be  pretty  nearly 
dead  when  they  are  on  the  ground. 

At  length  the  road  brought  me  up  to  the  house.  It 
did  not  look  such  a  large  house  as  I  have  since  found  it 
to  be.  And  it  certainly  was  not  an  interesting  house 
from  the  outside,  though  its  surroundings  of  green  grass 
and  trees  would  make  any  whole  beautiful.  Indeed  the 
house  itself  tried  hard  to  look  ugly,  not  quite  succeed- 
ing, only  because  of  the  kind  foiling  of  its  efforts  by  the 
Virginia  creepers  and  ivy,  which,  as  if  ashamed  of  its 
staring  countenance,  did  all  they  could  to  spread  their 
hands  over  it  and  hide  it.  But  there  was  one  charming 
group  of  old  chimneys,  belonging  to  some  portion  be- 
hind, which  indicated  a  very  different,  namely,  a  very 
much  older,  face  upon  the  house  once — a  face  that  had 
passed  away  to  give  place  to  this.  Once  inside,  I  found 
4:here  were  more  remains  of  the  olden  time  than  I  had 
expected.  I  was  led  up  one  of  those  grand  square  oak 
staircases,  which  look  like  a  portion  of  the  house  to  be 
dwelt  in,  and  not  like  a  ladder  for  getting  from  one  part 
of  the  habitable  regions  to  another.  On  the  top  was  a 
fine  expanse  of  landing,  another  hall,  in  fact,  from  which 
I  was  led  towards  the  back  oi  the  house  by  a  naiTow 
passage,  and  shown  into  a  small  dark  drawing-room 
with  a  deep  stone-muUioned  window,  wainscoted  in  oak 
simply  carved  and  panelled.  Several  doors  around  in- 
dicated communication  with  other  parts  of  the  house 
Here  I  found  Mrs  Oldcastle,  reading  what  I  judged  to 
be  one  of  the  cheap  and  gaudy  religious  books  of  the 
present  day.     She  rose  and  received  me,  and  having  mo 


72  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

tioned  me  to  a  seat,  began  to  talk  about  the  parish. 
You  would  have  perceived  at  once  from  her  tone  that 
she  recognised  no  other  bond  of  connexion  between  us 
but  the  parish. 

"  I  hear  you  have  been  most  kind  in  visiting  the  poor, 
Mr  Walton.  You  must  take  care  that  they  don't  take 
advantage  of  your  kindness,  though.  I  assure  you,  you 
will  find  some  of  them  very  grasping  indeed.  And  you 
need  not  expect  that  they  will  give  you  the  least  credit 
for  good  intentions," 

"  I  have  seen  nothing  yet  to  make  me  uneasy  on  that 
score.     But  certainly  my  testimony  is  of  no  weight  yet." 

"  Mine  is.  I  have  proved  them.  The  poor  of  this 
neighbourhood  are  very  deficient  in  gratitude." 

"  Yes,  grannie, " 

I  started.  But  there  was  no  interruption,  such  as  I 
have  made  to  indicate  my  surprise ;  although,  when  I 
looked  half  round  in  the  direction  whence  the  voice 
came,  the  words  that  followed  were  all  rippled  with  a 
sweet  laugh  of  amusement. 

"  Yes,  grannie,  you  are  right.  You  remember  how 
old  dame  Hope  wouldn't  take  the  money  you  oftered 
her,  and  dropped  such  a  disdainful  courtesy.  It  was  so 
greedy  of  her,  wasn't  itf 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  any  disdainful  reception  of 
kindness,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  and  she  had  the  coolness,  within  a  fortnight,  to 
send  up  to  me  and  ask  if  I  would  be  kind  enough  to 
lend  her  half-a-crown  for  a  few  weeks." 

"  And  then  it  was  your  turn,  grannie  !     You  sent  hei 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  73 

five  shillings,  didn't  you  1 — Oh  no ;  I  'm  wrong.  That 
was  the  other  woman." 

"  Indeed,  I  did  not  send  her  anything  but  a  rebuke. 
I  told  her  that  it  would  be  a  very  wrong  thing  in  me  to 
contribute  to  the  sup])ort  of  such  an  evil  spirit  of  un- 
thankfulness  as  she  indulged  in.  When  she  came  to  see 
her  conduct  in  its  true  light,  and  confessed  that  she  had 
behaved  very  abominably,  I  would  see  what  I  could  do 
for  her." 

"And  meantime  she  was  served  out,  wasn't  shel 
With  her  sick  boy  at  home,  and  nothing  to  give  him?" 
said  Miss  Gladwyn. 

"  She  made  her  own  bed,  and  had  to  lie  on  it." 

"  Don't  you  think  a  little  kindness  might  have  had 
more  effect  in  bringing  her  to  see  that  she  was  wrong." 

"  Grannie  doesn't  beheve  in  kindness,  except  to  me — 
dear  old  grannie  !  She  spoils  me.  I  '"m  sure  I  shall  be 
ungrateful  some  day;  and  then  she'll  begin  to  read  me 
long  lectures,  and  prick  me  with  all  inanner  of  headless 
pins.  But  I  won't  stand  it,  I  can  tell  you,  grannie  !  I  'm 
too  much  spoiled  for  that." 

Mrs  Oldcastle  was  silent — why,  I  could  not  tell,  except 
it  was  that  she  knew  she  had  no  chance  of  quieting  the 
girl  in  any  other  way. 

I  may  mention  here,  lest  I  should  have  no  opportunity 
afterwards,  that  I  inquired  of  dame  Hope  as  to  her 
version  of  the  story,  and  found  that  there  had  been  a 
great  misunderstanding,  as  I  had  suspected.  She  was 
really  in  no  want  at  the  time,  and  did  not  feel  that  it 
vyovild  be  quite  hpngurable  to  take  the  money  when  she 


74  AUNAI.S    OF    A    QUIET    NEl 'JHBOURHOOD. 

did  not  need  it — (some  poor  people  are  capable  of  such 
reasoning) — and  so  had  refused  it,  not  without  a  feeling 
at  the  same  time  that  it  was  more  pleasant  to  refuse  than 
to  accept  from  such  a  giver;  some  stray  sparkle  of  which 
feeling,  discovered  by  the  keen  eye  of  Miss  Gladwyn, 
may  have  given  that  appearance  of  disdain  to  her  cour- 
tesy to  which  the  girl  alluded.  When,  however,  her  boy 
in  service  was  brought  home  ill,  she  had  sent  to  ask  for 
what  she  now  required,  on  the  very  ground  that  it  had 
been  offered  to  her  before.  The  misunderstanding  had 
arisen  from  the  total  incapacity  of  Mrs  Oldcastle  to 
enter  sympathetically  into  the  feelings  of  one  as  superior 
to  herself  in  character  as  she  was  inferior  in  worldly 
condition. 

But  to  return  to  Oldcastle  Hall. 

I  wished  to  change  the  subject,  knowing  that  blind 
defence  is  of  no  use.  One  must  have  definite  points  for 
lefence,  if  one  has  not  a  thorough  understanding  of  the 
character  in  question ;  and  I  had  neither. 

"  This  is  a  beautiful  old  nouse,"  I  said.  "  There  must 
be  strange  places  about  it" 

Mrs  Oldcastle  had  not  time  to  reply,  or  at  least  did 
not  reply,  before  Miss  Gladwyn  said — 

"  Oh,  Mr  Walton,  have  you  looked  out  of  the  window 
yet  %  You  don't  know  what  a  lovely  place  this  is,  if  you 
haven't" 

And  as  she  spoke  she  emerged  from  a  recess  in  the 
room,  a  kind  of  dark  alcoye,  where  ghe  had  been  amus- 
ing herself  with  what  I  took  to  be  some  sort  of  puzzle, 
t)ut  which  I  found  afterwards  to  l?e  the  t»it  and  cyrb- 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  75 


chain  of  her  pony's  bridle  which  she  was  polishing  up 
to  her  own  bright  mind,  because  the  stable-boy  had  not 
pleased  her  in  the  matter,  and  she  wanted  both  to  get 
them  brilliant  and  to  shame  the  lad  for  the  future.  I 
followed  her  to  the  window,  where  I  was  indeed  as  much 
surprised  and  pleased  as  she  could  have  wished, 

"  There  !"  she  said,  holding  back  one  of  the  dingy 
heavy  curtains  with  her  small  childish  hand. 

And  there,  indeed,  I  saw  an  astonishment.  It  did 
not  lie  in  the  lovely  sweeps  of  hill  and  hollow  stretching 
away  to  the  horizon,  richly  wooded,  and — though  I  saw 
none  of  them — sprinkled,  certainly  with  sweet  villages 
full  of  human  thoughts,  loves,  and  hopes;  the  astonish- 
ment did  not  lie  in  this — though  all  this  was  really  much 
more  beautiful  to  the  higher  imagination — but  in  the  fact 
that,  at  the  first  glance,  I  had  a  vision  properly  belonging 
to  a  rugged  or  mountainous  country.  For  I  had  af)- 
proached  the  house  by  a  gentle  slope,  which  certainly 
was  long  and  winding,  but  had  occasioned  no  feeling  in 
my  mind  that  I  had  reached  any  considerable  height. 
And  I  had  come  up  that  one  beautiful  staircase;  no 
more;  and  )'et  now,  when  I  looked  from  this  window,  I 
found  myself  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice — not  a  very 
deep  one,  certainly,  yet  with  all  the  effect  of  many  a 
deeper.  For  below  the  house  on  this  side  lay  a  great 
hollow,  with  steep  sides,  up  which,  as  far  as  they  could 
reach,  the  trees  were  climbing.  The  sides  were  not  all 
so  steep  as  the  one  on  which  the  house  stood,  but  they 
vcTe  all  rocky  and  steep,  with  here  and  therfe  slopes  of 
gi^een  grass.     And  down  in  the  bottom,  in  the  centre  of 


76  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

the  hollow,  lay  a  pool  of  water.  I  knew  it  only  by  its 
biaty  shimmer  through  the  fading  green  of  the  tree-tops 
between  me  and  it. 

"There  !"  again  exclaimed  Miss  Gladwyn;  "isn't  that 
beautiful?  But  you  haven't  seen  the  most  beautiful 
thing  yet.  Grannie,  where 's — ah  !  there  she  is  !  There 's 
auntie  !  Don't  you  see  her  down  there,  by  the  side  of 
the  pond?  That  pond  is  a  hundred  feet  deep.  If 
auntie  were  to  fall  in  she  would  be  drowned  before  you 
could  jump  down  to  get  her  out.     Can  you  swim?" 

Before  I  had  time  to  answer,  she  was  off  again. 

" Don't  you  see  auntie  down  there?" 

"  No,  I  don't  see  her.  I  have  been  trying  very  hard, 
but  I  can't." 

"  Well,  I  daresay  you  can't.  Nobody,  I  think,  has 
got  eyes  but  myself.  Do  you  see  a  big  stone  by  the 
edge  of  the  pond,  with  another  stone  on  the  top  of  it, 
like  a  big  potato  with  a  little  one  grown  out  of  it?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  auntie  is  under  the  trees  on  the  opposite  side 
from  that  stone.     Do  you  see  her  yet  1" 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  must  come  down  with  me,  and  I  will  in- 
troduce you  to  her.  She 's  much  the  prettiest  thing  here. 
Much  prettier  than  grannie." 

Here  she  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  grannie,  who, 
instead  of  being  angry,  as,  from  what  I  had  seen  on  our 
former  interview,  I  feared  she  would  be,  only  said,  with- 
out even  looking  up  from  the  little  blue-boarded  book 
she  was  iigain  reading — 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  77 

"  You  are  a  saucy  child." 

Whereupon  Miss  Gladwyn  laughed  merrily. 

•'  Come  along,"  she  said,  and,  seizing  me  by  the  hand, 
led  me  out  of  the  room,  down  a  back-staircase,  across  a 
piece  of  grass,  and  then  down  a  stair  in  the  face  of  the 
rock,  towards  the  pond  below.  The  stair  went  in  zigzags, 
and,  although  rough,  was  protected  by  an  iron  balus- 
trade, without  which,  indeed,  it  would  have  been  very 
dangerous. 

"  Isn't  your  grandmamma  afraid  to  let  you  run  up  and 
down  here,  Miss  Gladwyn  V  I  said. 

"  Mel"  she  exclaimed,  apparently  in  the  utmost  sur- 
prise. "  That  would  be  fun !  For,  you  know,  if  she 
tried  to  hinder  me — but  she  knows  it 's  no  use ;  I  taught 
her  that  long  ago — let  me  see,  how  long :  oh  !  I  don't 
know — I  should  think  it  must  be  ten  years  at  least.  I 
ran  away,  and  they  thought  I  had  drowned  myself  in  the 
pond  And  I  saw  them,  all  the  time,  poking  with  a  long 
stick  in  the  pond,  which,  if  I  had  been  drowned  there, 
never  could  have  brought  me  up,  for  it  is  a  hundred  feet 
deep,  I  am  sure.  How  I  hurt  my  sides  trying  to  keep 
from  screaming  with  laughter !  I  fancied  I  heard  one  say 
to  the  other,  '  We  must  wait  till  she  swells  and  floats'?'" 

"  Dear  me  !  what  a  peculiar  child  ! "  I  said  to  myself 

And  yet  somehow,  whatever  she  said — even  when  she 
was  most  rude  to  her  grandmother — she  was  never  offen- 
sive. No  one  could  have  helped  feeling  all  the  time 
that  she  was  a  little  lady. — I  thought  I  would  venture  a 
question  with  her.  I  stood  still  at  a  turn  of  the  zigzag, 
and  looked  down  into  the  hollow,  still  a  good  way  be- 


78  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOODt 

low  US,  where  I  could  now  distinguish  the  form,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  pond,  of  a  woman  seated  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree,  and  stooping  forward  over  a  book. 

"  May  I  ask  you  a  question.  Miss  Gladwyn?" 

"  Yes,  twenty,  if  you  like ;  but  I  won't  answer  one  of 
them  till  you  give  up  calling  me  Miss  Gladwyn,  We 
can't  be  friends,  you  know,  so  long  as  you  do  that.'' 

"  What  am  I  to  call  you,  then  1  I  never  heard  you 
called  by  any  other  name  than  Pet,  and  that  would 
hardly  do,  would  it?" 

"  Oh,  just  fancy  if  you  called  me  Pet  before  grannie  ! 
That 's  grannie's  name  for  me,  and  nobody  dares  to  use 
it  but  grannie — not  even  auntie ;  for,  between  you  and 
me,  auntie  is  afraid  of  grannie ;  I  can't  think  why.  I 
never  was  afraid  of  anybody — except,  yes,  a  little  afraid 
of  old  Sarah.  She  used  to  be  my  nurse,  you  know ;  and 
grandmamma  and  everybody  is  afraid  of  her,  and  that's 
just  why  I  never  do  one  thmg  she  wants  me  to  do.  It 
would  never  do  to  give  in  to  being  afraid  of  her,  you 
know. — There 's  auntie,  you  see,  down  there,  just  where 
I  told  you  before." 

"  Oh  yes !  I  see  her  now. — What  does  your  aunt  call 
you,  thenl" 

"Why,  what  you  must  call  me — my  own  name,  of 
course." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Judy." 

She  said  it  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  indicate  sur- 
prise that  I  should  not  know  her  name — perhaps  read 
it  off  her  face,  as  one  ought  to  know  a  flower's  name  by 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  79 

looking  at  it.  But  she  added  instantly,  glancing  up  in 
my  face  most  comically — 

"  I  wish  yours  was  Punch." 

"Why,  Judy?" 

"  It  would  be  such  fun,  you  know." 

"Well,  it  would  be  odd,  I  must  confess.  What  is 
your  aunt's  name  1" 

"  Oh,  such  a  funny  name  ! — much  funnier  than  Judy : 
Ethelwyn.  It  sounds  as  if  it  ought  to  mean  something, 
doesn't  it?" 

"  Yes.     It  is  an  Anglo-Saxon  word,  without  doubt." 

"  What  does  it  mean  1" 

"  I  'm  not  sure  about  that.  I  will  try  to  find  out 
when  I  go  home — if  you  would  like  to  know." 

"  Yes,  that  I  should.  I  should  like  to  know  every- 
thing about  auntie.     Ethelwyn.     Isn't  it  pretty  ? " 

"  So  pretty  that  I  should  like  to  know  something 
more  about  Aunt  Ethelwyn.     What  is  her  other  name  V* 

"Why,  Ethelwyn  Oldcastle,  to  be  sure.  What  else 
could  it  be  ? 

"  Why,  you  know,  for  anything  I  knew,  Judy,  it  might 
have  been  Gladwyn.  She  might  have  been  your  father's 
sister." 

"  Might  she  ?  I  never  thought  of  that.  Oh,  I  sup- 
pose that  is  because  I  never  think  about  my  father. 
And  now  I  do  think  of  it,  I  wonder  why  nobody  ever 
mentions  him  to  me,  or  my  mother  either.  But  I  often 
think  auntie  must  be  thinking  about  my  mother.  Some- 
thing in  her  eyes,  when  they  are  sadder  than  usual, 
seems  to  remind  me  of  my  mother." 


8o  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIKT    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"You  remember  your  mother,  theni" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  her.  But  I  've  answered 
plenty  of  questions,  haven't  II  I  assure  you,  if  you 
want  to  get  me  on  to  the  Catechism,  I  don't  know  a 
word  of  it     Come  along." 

I  laughed. 

"What!"  she  said,  pulling  me  by  the  hand,  "you  a 
clergyman,  and  laugh  at  the  Catechism !  I  didn't  know 
that." 

"  I  'm  not  laughing  at  the  Catechism,  Judy.  I  'm  only 
laughing  at  the  idea  of  putting  Catechism  questions  to 
you." 

"  You  know  I  didn't  mean  it,"  she  said,  with  some  in- 
dignation. 

"  I  know  now,"  I  answered.  "  But  you  haven't  let 
me  put  the  only  question  I  wanted  to  put." 

"What  is  it  1" 

"  How  old  are  you?" 

"  Twelve.     Come  along." 

And  away  we  went  down  the  rest  of  the  stair. 

When  we  reached  the  bottom,  a  winding  path  led  us 
through  the  trees  to  the  side  of  the  pond,  along  which 
we  passed  to  get  to  the  other  side. 

And  then  all  at  once  the  thought  struck  me — why 
was  it  that  I  had  never  seen  this  auntie,  with  the  lovely 
name,  at  church  1  Was  she  going  to  turn  out  another 
strange  parishioner? 

There  she  sat,  intent  on  her  book.  As  we  drew  neai 
she  looked  up  and  rose,  but  did  not  come  forward. 

"  Aunt  Winnie,  here 's  Mr  Walton,"  said  Judy. 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  8l 

I  lifted  my  hat  and  held  out  my  hand.  Before  out 
hands  met,  however,  a  tremendous  splash  reached  my 
ears  from  the  pond.  I  started  round.  Judy  had  van- 
ished. I  had  my  coat  half  off,  and  was  rushing  to  the 
pool,  when  Miss  Oldcastle  stopped  me,  her  face  un- 
moved, except  by  a  smile,  saying,  "  It 's  only  one  of  that 
frolicsome  child's  tricks,  Mr  Walton.  It  is  well  for  you 
that  I  was  here,  though.  Nothing  would  have  delighted 
her  more  than  to  have  you  in  the  water  too." 

"  But,"  I  said,  bewildered,  and  not  half  comprehend' 
ing,  "  where  is  she  1 " 

"  There,"  returned  Miss  Oldcastle,  pointing  to  the 
pool,  in  the  middle  of  which  arose  a  heaving  and  bub- 
bling, presently  yielding  passage  to  the  laughing  face  of 
Judy. 

"  Why  don't  you  help  me  out,  Mr  Walton  1  You  said 
you  could  swim." 

"  No,  I  did  not,"  I  answered  coolly.  "  You  talked 
so  fast,  you  did  not  give  me  time  to  say  so." 

"  It 's  very  cold,"  she  returned. 

"  Come  out,  Judy  dear,"  said  her  aunt.  "  Run  home 
and  change  your  clothes.     There 's  a  dear." 

Judy  swam  to  the  opposite  side,  scrambled  out,  and 
was  oft"  like  a  spaniel  through  the  trees  and  up  the  stairs, 
dripping  and  raining  as  she  went, 

"  You  must  be  very  much  astonished  at  the  little 
creature,  Mr  Walton." 

"  I  find  her  very  interesting.     Quite  a  study." 

"  There  never  was  a  child  so  spoiled,  and  never  a 
child  on  whom  it  took  less  effect  to  hurt  her.    I  suppose 


82  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

such  things  do  happen  sometimes.  She  is  really  a  good 
girl ;  though  mamma,  who  has  done  all  the  spoiling,  will 
not  allow  me  to  say  she  is  good." 

Here  followed  a  pause,  for,  Judy  disposed  of,  wl^.at 
should  I  say  next?  And  the  moment  hefjinind  turned 
from  Judy,  I  saw  a  certain  stillness — not  a  cloud,  but 
the  shadow  of  a  cloud — come  over  Miss  Oldcastle's  face, 
as  if  she,  too,  found  herself  uncomfortable,  and  did  not 
know  what  to  say  next.  I  tried  to  get  a  glance  at  the 
book  in  her  hand,  for  I  should  know  something  about 
her  at  once  if  I  could  only  see  what  she  was  reading. 
She  never  came  to  church,  and  I  wanted  to  arrive  at 
some  notion  of  the  source  of  her  spiritual  life ;  for  that 
she  had  such,  a  single  glance  at  her  face  was  enough  to 
convince  me.  This,  I  mean,  made  me  even  anxious  to 
see  what  the  book  was.  But  I  could  only  discover  that 
it  was  an  old  book  in  very  shabby  binding,  not  in  the 
least  like  the  books  that  young  ladies  generally  have  in 
their  hands. 

And  now  my  readers  will  possibly  be  thinking  it  odd 
that  I  have  never  yet  said  a  word  about  what  either 
Judy  or  Miss  Oldcastle  was  like.  If  there  is  one  thing 
1  feel  more  inadequate  to  than  another,  in  taking  upon 
me  to  relate — it  is  to  describe  a  lady.  But  I  will  tiy 
the  gill  first. 

Judy  was  rosy,  gray -eyed,  auburn  -  haired,  sweet- 
mouthed.  She  had  confidence  in  her  chin,  assertion 
in  her  nose,  defiance  in  her  eyebrows,  honesty  and 
friendliness  over  all  her  face.  No  one,  evidently,  could 
have  a  warmer  friend;  and  to  an  enemy  she  would  be 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  83 

dangerous  no  longer  than  a  fit  of  passion  might  last 
There  was  nothing  acrid  in  her ;  and  the  reason,  I  pre 
same,  was,  that  she  had  never  yet  hurt  her  conscience. 
That  is  a  very  different  thing  from  saying  she  had  nevei 
done  wrong,  you  know.  She  was  not  tall,  even  for  hei 
age,  and  just  a  little  too  plump  for  the  immediate  sug- 
gestion of  grace.  Yet  every  motion  of  the- child  would 
have  been  graceful,  except  for  the  fact  that  impulse  was 
always  predominant,  giving  a  certain  jerkiness,  like  the 
hopping  of  a  bird,  instead  of  the  gliding  of  one  n\otion 
into  another,  such  as  you  might  see  in  the  same  bird  on 
the  wing. 

There  is  one  of  the  ladies. 

But  the  other — how  shall  I  attempt  to  describe  herl 
The  first  thing  I  felt  was,  that  she  was  a  lady-woman. 
And  to  feel  that  is  almost  to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight. 
And  out  of  this  whole,  the  first  thing  you  distinguished 
would  be  the  grace  over  all.  She  was  rather  slender, 
rather  tall,  rather  dark-haired,  and  quite  blue-eyed.  But 
I  assure  you  it  was  not  upon  that  occasion  that  I 
found  out  the  colour  of  her  eyes.  I  was  so  taken 
with  her  whole  that  I  knew  nothing  about  her  parts. 
Yet  she  was  blue-eyed,  indicating  northern  extraction 
— some  centuries  back  perhaps.  That  blue  was  tlxg 
blue  of  the  sea  that  had  sunk  through  the  eyes  of 
some  sea-rover's  wife  and  settled  in  those  of  her  child, 
to  be  born  when  the  voyage  was  over.  It  had  been 
dyed  so  deep  ingrayne,  as  Spenser  would  say,  that  it 
had  never  been  worn  from  the  souls  of  the  race  since, 
and  so  was  every  now  and  then  shining  like  heaven 


84  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

out  at  some  of  its  eyes.  Her  features  were  what  is 
called  regular.  They  were  delicate  and  brave. — Aftet 
the  grace,  the  dignity  was  the  next  thing  you  came  to 
discover.  And  the  only  thing  you  would  not  have  liked, 
you  would  have  discovered  last.  For  when  the  shine  ol 
the  courtesy  with  which  she  received  me  had  faded 
away,  a  certain  look  of  negative  haughtiness,  of  with- 
drawal, if  not  of  repulsion,  took  its  place,  a  look  of  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  high  breeding — a  pride,  not  of 
life,  but  of  circumstance  of  life,  which  disappointed  me 
in  the  midst  of  so  much  that  was  very  lovely.  Her 
voice  was  sweet,  and  I  could  have  fancied  a  tinge  of 
sadness  in  it,  to  which  impression  her  slowness  of 
speech,  without  any  drawl  in  it,  contributed.  But  I 
am  not  doing  well  as  an  artist  in  describing  her  so  fully 
before  my  reader  has  become  in  the  least  degree  inter- 
ested in  her.  I  was  seeing  her,  and  no  words  can  make 
him  see  her. 

Fearing  lest  some  such  fancy  as  had  possessed  Judy 
should  be  moving  in  her  mind,  namely,  that  I  was,  if 
not  exactly  going  to  put  her  through  her  Catechism,  yet 
going  in  some  way  or  other  to  act  the  clergyman,  I  has- 
tened to  speak. 

"  This  is  a  most  romantic  spot.  Miss  Oldcastle,"  I 
said ;  "  and  as  surprising  as  it  is  romantic  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  saw  it  first." 

"  Your  surprise  was  the  more  natural  that  the  place 
itself  is  not  properly  natural,  as  you  must  have  dis- 
coveied." 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  8, 


This  was  rather  a  remarkable  speech  for  a  young  lady 
to  make.     I  answered — 

"  I  only  know  that  such  a  chasm  is  the  last  thing  I 
should  have  expected  to  find  in  this  gently  undulating 
country.  That  it  is  artificial  I  was  no  more  prepared 
to  hear  than  I  was  to  see  the  place  itself." 

**  It  looks  pretty,  but  it  has  not  a  very  poetic  origin," 
she  returned.  "  It  is  nothing  but  the  quarry  out  of 
which  the  old  house  at  the  top  of  it  was  built." 

"  I  must  venture  to  differ  from  you  entirely  in  the 
aspect  such  an  origin  assumes  to  me,"  I  said.  '*  It 
seems  to  me  a  more  poetic  origin  than  any  convulsion 
of  nature  whatever  would  have  been ;  for,  look  you,"  I 
said — being  as  a  young  man  too  much  inclined  to  the 
didactic,  "  for,  look  you,"  I  said — and  she  did  look  at 
me — "  from  that  buried  mass  of  rock  has  arisen  this 
living  house  with  its  histories  of  ages  and  generations ; 
and" 

Here  I  saw  a  change  pass  upon  her  face :  it  grew 
almost  pallid.  But  her  large  blue  eyes  were  still  fixed 
on  mine. 

"  And  it  seems  to  me,"  I  went  on,  "  that  such  a  chasm 
made  by  the  upUfting  of  a  house  therefrom,  is  therefore 
in  itself  more  poetic  than  if  it  were  even  the  mouth  of 
an  extinct  volcano.  For,  grand  as  the  motions  and 
deeds  of  Nature  are,  terrible  as  is  the  idea  of  the  fiery 
heart  of  the  earth  breaking  out  in  convulsions,  yet  here 
is  something  greater;  for  human  will,  human  thought, 
human  hands  in  human  labour  and  effort,  have  all  been 
employed  to  build  this  house,  making  not  only  the  house 


86  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

beautiful,  but  the  place  whence  it  came  beautiful  too. 
It  stands  on  the  edge  of  what  Shelley  would  call  its 
'  antenatal  tomb ' — now  beautiful  enough  to  be  its  mother 
— filled  from  generation  to  generation  " 

Her  face  had  grown  still  paler,  and  her  lips  moved  as 
if  she  would  speak;  but  no  sound  came  from  them.  I 
had  gone  on,  thinking  it  best  to  take  no  notice  of  her 
paleness ;  but  now  I  could  not  help  expressing  concern. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  feel  ill,  Miss  Oldcastle." 

"Not  at  all,"  she  answered,  more  quickly  than  she 
had  yet  spoken. 

"This  place  must  be  damp,"  I  said.  "I  fear  you 
have  taken  cold." 

She  drew  herself  up  a  little  haughtily,  thinking,  no 
doubt,  that  after  her  denial  I  was  improperly  pressing 
the  point.  So  I  drew  back  to  the  subject  of  our  con- 
versation. 

"  But  I  can  hardly  think,"  I  said,  "  that  all  this  mass 
of  stone  could  be  required  to  build  the  house,  large  as  it 
is.     A  house  is  not  solid,  you  know." 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  The  original  building  was 
more  of  a  castle,  with  walls  and  battlements.  I  can 
show  you  the  foundations  of  them  still ;  and  the  picture, 
too,  of  what  the  place  used  to  be.  We  are  not  what  we 
were  then.  Many  a  cottage,  too,  has  been  built  out  of 
this  old  quarry.  Not  a  stone  has  been  taken  from  it  for 
the  last  fifty  years,  though.  Just  let  me  show  you  one 
thing,  Mr  Walton,  and  then  I  must  leave  you." 

"  Do  not  let  me  detain  you  a  moment  I  will  go  at 
once,"  I  said;  "though,  if  you  would  allow  me,  1  should 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  8/ 

be  more  at  ease  if  I  might  see  you  safe  at  the  top  of  the 
stair  first." 

She  smiled, 

"Indeed,  I  am  not  ill,"  she  answered;  "but  I  have 
duties  to  attend  to.  Just  let  me  show  you  this,  and  then 
j'ou  shall  go  with  me  back  to  mamma." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  edge  of  the  pond  and  looked 
into  it.  I  followed,  and  gazed  down  into  its  depths,  till 
my  sight  was  lost  in  them.  I  could  see  no  bottom  to 
the  rocky  shaft. 

"  There  is  a  strong  spring  down  there,"  she  said. 
"  Is  it  not  a  dreadful  place?    Such  a  depth !" 

"Yes,"  I  answered;  "but  it  has  not  the  horror  of 
dirty  water;  it  is  as  clear  as  crystal.  How  does  the 
surplus  escape  1" 

"  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hill  you  came  up  there 
is  a  well,  with  a  strong  stream  from  it  into  the  river." 

"  I  almost  wonder  at  your  choosing  such  a  place  to 
read  in.  I  should  hardly  like  to  be  so  near  this  pond," 
said  I,  laughing. 

"  Judy  has  taken  all  that  away.  Nothing  in  nature, 
and  everything  out  of  it,  is  strange  to  Judy,  poor  child  I 
But  just  look  down  a  little  way  into  the  water  on  this 
side.     Do  you  see  anything?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  answered. 

"  Look  again,  against  the  wall  of  the  pond,"  she 
said. 

"  I  see  a  kind  of  arch  or  opening  in  the  side,"  I 
answered. 

"  That  is  what  I  wanted  you  to  see.     Now,  do  you 


88  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

see  a  little  barred  window,  there,  in  the  face  of  the  rock^ 
through  the  trees?" 

"  I  cannot  say  I  do,"  I  replied. 

"  No.  Except  you  know  where  it  is — and  even  then 
— it  is  not  so  easy  to  find  it     I  find  it  by  certain  trees." 

"  What  is  it  V 

"  It  is  the  window  of  a  little  room  in  the  rock,  from 
which  a  stair  leads  down  through  the  rock  to  a  sloping 
passage.    That  is  the  end  of  it  you  see  under  the  water." 

•*  Provided,  no  doubt,"  I  said,  "  in  case  of  siege,  to 
procure  water." 

"Most  likely;  but  not,  therefore,  confined  to  that 
purpose.  There  are  more  dreadful  stories  than  I  can 
bear  to  think  of" ■ 

Here  she  paused  abruptly,  and  began  anew 

" As  if  that  house  had  brought  death  and  doom 

out  of  the  earth  with  it.  There  was  an  old  burial-ground 
here  before  the  Hall  was  built" 

"  Have  you  ever  been  down  the  stair  you  speak  ofV 
I  asked. 

"  Only  part  of  the  way,"  she  answered.  "  But  Judy 
knows  every  step  of  it  If  it  were  not  that  the  door  at 
the  top  is  locked,  she  would  have  dived  through  that 
archway  now,  and  been  in  her  own  room  in  half  the 
time.     The  child  does  not  know  what  fear  means." 

We  now  moved  away  from  the  pond,  towards  the  side 
of  the  quarry  and  the  open-air  stair-case,  which  I  thought 
must  be  considerably  more  pleasant  than  the  other.  I 
confess  I  longed  to  see  the  gleam  of  that  water  at  tl« 
bottom  of  the  dark  sloping  passage,  though. 


OLDCASTLE    HALL.  8g 


Miss  Oldcastle  accompanied  me  to  the  room  where  I 
had  left  her  mother,  and  took  her  leave  with  merely  a 
bow  of  farewell.  I  saw  the  old  lady  glance  sharply  from 
her  to  me  as  if  she  were  jealous  of  what  we  might  have 
been  talking  about. 

"  Grannie,  are  you  afraid  Mr  Walton  has  been  saying 
pretty  things  to  Aunt  Winnie  1  I  assure  you  he  is  not 
of  that  sort.  He  doesn't  understand  that  kind  of  thing. 
But  he  would  have  jumped  into  the  pond  after  me  and 
got  his  death  of  cold  if  auntie  would  have  let  him.  It 
was  cold.    I  think  I  see  you  dripping  now,  Mr  Walton." 

There  she  was  in  her  dark  comer,  coiled  up  on  a 
couch,  and  laughing  heartily ;  but  all  as  if  she  had  done 
nothing  extraordinary.  And,  indeed,  estimated  either  by 
her  own  notions  or  practices,  what  she  had  done  was 
not  in  the  least  extraordinary. 

Disinclined  to  stay  any  longer,  I  shook  hands  with 
the  grandmother,  with  a  certain  invincible  sense  of  slime, 
and  with  the  grandchild  with  a  feeling  of  mischievous 
health,  as  if  the  girl  might  soon  corrupt  the  clergyman 
into  a  partnership  in  pranks  as  well  as  in  friendship. 
She  followed  me  out  of  the  room,  and  danced  before 
me  down  the  oak  staircase,  clearing  the  portion  from 
the  first  landing  at  a  bound.  Then  she  turned  and 
waited  for  me,  who  came  very  deliberately,  feeling  the 
unsure  contact  of  sole  and  wax.  As  soon  as  I  reached 
her,  she  said,  in  a  half-whisper,  reaching  up  towards  me 
on  tiptoe — 

"Isn't  she  a  beauty T 

"  Who?  your  grandmamma?"  I  returned. 


90  ANNAI.S    OF    A    QUIKT    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

She  gave  me  a  little  push,  her  face  glowing  with  fun. 
But  I  did  not  expect  she  would  take  her  revenge  as  she 
did. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  she  answered,  quite  gravely.  "  Isn't 
she  a  beauty?" 

And  then,  seeing  that  she  had  put  me  hors  de  combat^ 
she  burst  into  loud  laughter,  and,  opening  the  hall-door 
for  me,  let  me  go  without  another  word. 

I  went  home  very  quietly,  and,  as  I  said,  stepping 
with  curious  care — of  which,  of  course,  I  did  not  think 
at  the  time — over  the  yellow  and  brown  leaves  that  lay 
in  the  middle  of  the  road. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  bishop's  basin. 

WENT  home  very  quietly,  as  I  say,  thinking 
about  the  strange  elements  that  not  only 
combine  to  make  life,  but  must  be  combined 
in  our  idea  of  life,  before  we  can  form  a  true 
theory  about  it.  Now-a-days,  the  vulgar  notion  of  what 
is  life-like  in  any  annals  is  to  be  realised  by  sternly  ex 
eluding  everything  but  the  commonplace;  and  the  means, 
at  least,  are  often  attained,  with  this  much  of  the  end  as 
well — that  the  appearance  life  bears  to  vulgar  minds  is 
represented  with  a  wonderful  degree  of  success.  But  I 
believe  that  this  is,  at  least,  quite  as  unreal  a  mode  of 
representing  life  as  the  other  extreme,  wherein  the  un- 
likely, the  romantic,  and  the  uncommon  predominate. 
I  doubt  whether  there  is  a  single  history — if  one  could 
only  get  at  the  whole  of  it — in  which  there  is  not  a  con- 
siderable admixture  of  the  unlikely  become  fact,  includ- 
ing  a  few   strange   coincidences;    of  the   uncommon, 


92  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

which,  although  striking  at  first,  has  grown  common 
from  familiarity  with  its  presence  as  our  own ;  with  even, 
at  least,  some  one  more  or  less  rosy  touch  of  what  we 
call  the  romantic.  My  own  conviction  is,  that  the 
poetry  is  far  the  deepest  in  us,  and  that  the  prose  is 
only  broken-down  poetry ;  and  likewise  that  to  this  our 
lives  correspond.  The  poetic  region  is  the  true  one, 
and  just,  therefore,  the  incredible  one  to  the  lower  order 
of  mind ;  for  although  every  mind  is  capable  of  the 
truth,  or  rather  capable  of  becoming  capable  of  the 
truth,  there  may  lie  ages  between  its  capacity  and  the 
truth.  As  you  will  hear  some  people  read  poetry  so 
that  no  mortal  could  tell  it  was  poetry,  so  do  jome 
people  read  their  own  lives  and  those  of  others. 

I  fell  into  these  reflections  from  comparing  in  my  own 
mind  my  former  experiences  in  visitirg  my  parishioners 
with  those  of  that  day.  True,  I  had  never  sat  down  to 
talk  with  one  of  them  without  finding  that  that  man  or 
that  woman  had  actually  a  history^  the  most  marvellous 
and  important  fact  to  a  human  being ;  nay,  I  had  found 
something  more  or  less  remarkable  in  every  one  of  their 
histories,  so  that  I  was  more  than  barely  interested  in 
each  of  them.  And  as  I  made  more  acquaintance  with 
them,  (for  I  had  not  been  in  the  position,  or  the  disposi- 
tion either,  before  I  came  to  Marshmallows,  necessary 
to  the  gathering  of  such  experiences,)  I  came  to  the 
conclusion — not  that  I  had  got  into  an  extraordinary 
parish  of  characters  —  but  that  every  parish  must  be 
more  or  less  extraordinary  from  the  same  cause.  Why 
did  I  not  use  to  see  such  people  about  me  before? 


THE  bishop's  basin.  93 

Surely  I  had  undergone  a  change  of  some  sort.  Could 
it  be,  that  the  trouble  I  had  been  going  through  of  late, 
had  opened  the  eyes  of  my  mind  to  the  understandingj 
or  rather  the  simple  seeing,  of  my  fellow-men  1 

But  the  people  among  whom  I  had  been  to-day  be- 
longed rather  to  such  as  might  be  put  into  a  romantic 
story.  Certainly  I  could  not  see  much  that  was  roman- 
tic in  the  old  lady ;  and  yet,  those  eyes  and  that  tight- 
skinned  face — what  might  they  not  be  capable  of  in  the 
working  out  of  a  story]  And  then  the  place  they  Hved 
in  !  Why,  it  would  hardly  come  into  my  ideas  of  a 
nineteenth-century  country  parish  at  all.  I  was  tempted 
to  try  to  persuade  myself  that  all  that  had  happened, 
since  I  rose  to  look  out  of  the  window  in  the  old  house, 
had  been  but  a  dream.  For  how  could  that  wooded 
dell  have  come  there  after  all  ?  It  was  much  too  large 
for  a  quarr}^  And  that  madcap  girl — she  never  flung 
herself  into  the  pond ! — it  could  not  be.  And  what 
could  the  book  have  been  that  the  lady  with  the  sea  blue 
eyes  was  reading  1  AVas  that  a  real  book  at  all  1  No. 
Yes.  Of  course  it  was.  But  what  was  it  1  What  had 
that  to  do  with  the  matter  1  It  might  turn  out  to  be  a  very 
commonplace  book  after  all.  No;  for  commonplace 
books  are  generally  new,  or  at  least  in  fine  bindings. 
And  here  was  a  shabby  little  old  book,  such  as,  if  it  had 
been  commonplace,  would  not  have  been  likely  to  be  the 
companion  of  a  young  lady  at  the  bottom  of  a  quarry — 

**  A  savage  place,  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover." 


94  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  know  all  this  will  sound  ridiculous,  especially  that 
quotation  from  Kubla  Khan  coming  after  the  close  of 
the  preceding  sentence ;  but  it  is  only  so  much  the  more 
like  the  jumble  of  thoughts  that  made  a  chaos  of  my 
mind  as  I  went  home.  And  then  for  that  terrible  pool, 
and  subterranean  passage,  and  all  that — what  had  it  all 
to  do  with  this  broad  daylight,  and  these  dying  autumn 
leaves?  No  doubt  there  had  been  such  places.  No 
doubt  there  were  such  places  somewhere  yet.  No  doubt 
this  was  one  of  them.  But,  somehow  or  other,  it  would 
not  come  in  well.  I  had  no  intention  of  going  in  for — 
that  is  the  phrase  now — going  in  for  the  romantic.  I 
would  take  the  impression  off  by  going  to  see  Weir  the 
carpenter's  old  father.  Whether  my  plan  v/as  successful 
or  not,  I  shall  leave  my  reader  to  judge. 

I  found  Weir  busy  as  usual,  but  not  with  a  coffin  this 
time.  He  was  working  at  a  window-sash.  "  Just  like 
life,"  I  thought — tritely  perhaps.  "  The  other  day  he 
was  closing  up  in  the  outer  darkness,  and  now  he  is  let- 
ting in  the  light." 

"  It 's  a  long  time  since  you  was  here  last,  sir,"  he 
said,  but  without  a  smile. 

Did  he  mean  a  reproach  ]  If  so,  I  was  more  glad  of 
that  reproach  than  I  would  have  been  of  the  warmest 
welcome,  even  from  Old  Rogers.  The  fact  was  thatj 
having  a  good  deal  to  attend  to  besides,  and  willing  at 
the  same  time  to  let  the  man  feel  tliat  he  was  in  no 
danger  of  being  bored  by  my  visits,  I  had  not  made  use 
even  of  my  reser»fe  in  the  shape  of  a  visit  to  his  father. 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  "  I  wanted  to  know  something 


THE    bishop's    basin.  9$ 

about  all  my  people,  before  I  paid  a  second  visit  to  any 
of  them." 

"  All  right,  sir.  Don't  suppose  I  meant  to  complain. 
Only  to  let  you  know  you  was  welcome,  sir." 

"  I've  just  come  from  my  first  visit  to  Oldcastle  Hall. 
And,  to  tell  the  truth,  for  I  don't  like  pretences,  my  visit 
to-day  was  not  so  much  to  you  as  to  your  father,  whom, 
perhaps,  I  ought  to  have  called  upon  before,  only  I  was 
afraid  of  seeming  to  intrude  upon  you,  seeing  we  don't 
exactly  think  the  same  way  about  some  things,"  I  added 
— with  a  smile,  I  know,  which  was  none  the  less  genuine 
that  I  remember  it  yet. 

And  what  makes  me  remember  it  yet  1  It  is  the  smile 
that  lighted  up  his  face  in  response  to  mine.  For  it  was 
more  than  I  looked  for.  And  his  answer  helped  to  fix 
the  smile  in  my  memory. 

"  You  made  me  think,  sir,  that  perhaps,  after  all,  we 
were  much  of  the  same  way  of  thinking,  only  perhaps 
you  was  a  long  way  ahead  of  me." 

Now  the  man  was  not  right  in  saying  that  we  were 
much  of  the  same  way  of  thinking;  for  our  opinions 
could  hardly  do  more  than  come  within  sight  of  each 
other ;  but  what  he  meant  was  right  enough.  For  I  was 
certain,  from  the  first,  that  the  man  had  a  regard  for  the 
downright,  honest  way  of  things,  and  I  hoped  that  I  too 
had  such  a  regard.  How  much  of  selfishness  and  of 
pride  in  one's  own  judgment  might  be  mixed  up  with  it, 
both  in  his  case  and  mine,  I  had  been  too  often  taken 
in — by  myself,  I  mean — to  be  at  all  careful  to  discrimi- 
nate, provided  there  was  a  proportion  of  real  honesty 


96  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD, 

along  with  it,  which,  I  felt  sure,  would  ultimately  elimi- 
nate the  other.  For  in  the  moral  nest,  it  is  not  as  with 
the  sparrow  and  the  cuckoo.  The  right,  the  original 
inhabitant  is  the  stronger ;  and,  however  unlikely  at  any 
given  point  in  the  history  it  may  be,  the  sparrow  will 
grow  strong  enough  to  heave  the  intruding  cuckoo  over- 
board. So  I  was  pleased  that  the  man  should  do  me 
the  honour  of  thinking  I  was  right  as  far  as  he  could  see, 
which  is  the  greatest  honour  one  man  can  do  another; 
for  it  is  setting  him  on  his  own  steed,  as  the  eastern 
tyrants  used  to  do.  And  I  was  delighted  to  think  that 
the  road  lay  open  for  further  and  more  real  communion 
between  us  in  time  to  come. 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  "  I  think  we  shall  understand 
each  other  perfectly  before  long.  But  now  I  must  see 
your  father,  if  it  is  convenient  and  agreeable," 

"  My  father  will  be  delighted  to  see  you,  I  know,  sir. 
He  can't  get  so  far  as  the  church  on  Sundays;  but  you  '11 
find  him  much  more  to  your  mind  than  me.  He 's  been 
putting  ever  so  many  questions  to  me  about  the  new 
parson,  wanting  me  to  try  whether  I  couldn't  get  more 
out  of  you  than  the  old  parson.  That 's  the  way  we  talk 
about  you,  you  see,  sir.  You  '11  understand.  And  I  Ve 
never  told  him  that  I  'd  been  to  church  since  you  came 
— I  suppose  from  a  bit  of  pride,  because  I  had  so  long 
refused  to  go ;  but  I  don't  doubt  some  of  the  neighbours 
have  told  him,  for  he  never  speaks  about  it  now.  And 
I  know  he 's  been  looking  out  for  you ;  and  I  fancy  he 's 
begun  to  wonder  that  the  parson  was  going  to  see  every- 
body but  him.    It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  the  old  man,  sir, 


THE  bishop's  basin.  97 

for  he  don't  see  a  great  many  to  talk  to;  and  he's  fond 
of  a  bit  of  gossip,  is  the  old  man,  sir." 

So  saying,  Weir  led  the  way  through  the  shop  into  a 
lobby  behind,  and  thence  up  what  must  have  been  a 
back-stair  of  the  old  house,  into  a  large  room  over  the 
workshop.  There  were  bits  of  old  carving  about  the 
walls  of  the  room  yet,  but,  as  in  the  shop  below,  all  had 
been  whitewashed.  At  one  end  stood  a  bed  with  chintz 
curtains  and  a  warm-looking  counterpane  of  rich  fiided 
embroidery.  There  was  a  bit  of  carpet  by  the  bedside, 
and  another  bit  in  front  of  the  fire  ;  and  there  the  old 
man  sat,  on  one  side,  in  a  high-backed  not  very  easy- 
looking  chair.  With  a  great  effort  he  managed  to  rise 
as  I  approached  him,  notwithstanding  my  entreaties  that 
he  would  not  move.  He  looked  much  older  when  on 
his  feet,  for  he  was  bent  nearly  double,  in  which  posture 
the  marvel  was  how  he  could  walk  at  all.  For  he  did 
totter  a  few  steps  to  meet  me,  without  even  the  aid  of  a 
stick,  and,  holding  out  a  thin,  shaking  hand,  welcomed 
me  with  an  air  of  breeding  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  his 
station  in  society.  But  the  chief  part  of  this  polish 
sprung  from  the  inbred  kindliness  of  his  nature,  which 
was  manifest  in  the  expression  of  his  noble  old  coun- 
tenance. Age  is  such  a  different  thing  in  different 
natures  !  One  man  seems  to  grow  more  and  more  self- 
ish as  he  grows  older;  and  in  another  the  slow  fire  of 
time  seems  only  to  consume,  with  fine,  imperceptible 
gradations,  the  yet  lingering  selfishness  in  him,  letting 
the  light  of  the  kingdom,  which  the  Lord  says  is  within, 
^hine  out  more  and  more,  as  the  husk  grows  thin  and  is 


gS  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOa 


ready  to  fall  off,  that  the  man,  like  the  seed  sown,  may 
pierce  the  earth  of  this  world,  and  rise  into  the  pure  air 
and  wind  and  dew  of  the  second  life.  The  face  of  a 
loving  old  man  is  always  to  me  like  a  morning  moon, 
reflecting  the  yet  unrisen  sun  of  the  other  world,  yet 
fading  before  its  approaching  light,  until,  when  it  does 
rise,  it  pales  and  withers  away  from  our  gaze,  absorbed 
in  the  source  of  its  own  beauty.  This  old  man,  you 
may  see,  took  my  fancy  wonderfully,  for  even  at  this 
distance  of  time,  when  I  am  old  myself,  the  recollection 
of  his  beautiful  old  face  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  could 
write  poetry  about  him. 

**  I  'm  blithe  to  see  ye,  sir,"  said  he.  "  Sit  ye  down, 
sir. 

And,  turning,  he  pointed  to  his  own  easy-chair;  and 
I  then  saw  his  profile.  It  was  delicate  as  that  of  Dante, 
which  in  form  it  marvellously  resembled.  But  all  the 
sternness  which  Dante's  evil  times  had  generated  in  his 
prophetic  face  was  in  this  old  man's  replaced  by  a  sweet 
ness  of  hope  that  was  lovely  to  behold. 

"  No,  Mr  Weir,"  I  said,  "  I  cannot  take  your  chair. 
The  Bible  tells  us  to  rise  up  before  the  aged,  not  to  turn 
them  out  of  their  seats." 

"  It  would  do  me  good  to  see  you  sitting  in  my  cheer, 
sir.  The  pains  that  my  son  Tom  there  takes  to  keep  it 
up  as  long  as  the  old  man  may  want  it !  It 's  a  good 
thing  I  bred  him  to  the  joiner's  trade,  sir.  Sit  ye  down, 
sir.  The  cheer '11  hold  ye,  though  I  warrant  it  won't 
last  that  long  aft^r  I  be  gone  home.     Sit  ye  down,  sir." 

Thus  entreated,  I  hesitfited  no  longer,  hut  tqoH  the 


THE    bishop's    basin.  95 

old  man's  seat.  His  son  brought  another  chair  for  him, 
and  he  sat  down  opposite  the  fire  and  close  to  me. 
Thomas  then  went  b.ack  to  his  work,  leaving  us  alone. 

"Ye've  had  some  speech  wi'  my  son  Tom,"  said 
the  old  man,  the  moment  he  was  gone,  leaning  a  little 
towards  me.  '"It's  main  kind  o'  you,  sir,  to  take  up 
kindly  wi'  poor  folks  like  us." 

"  You  don't  say  it 's  kind  of  a  person  to  do  what  he 
likes  best,"  I  answered.  "  Besides,  it 's  my  duty  to  know 
all  my  people." 

"Oh  yes,  sir,  I  know  that.  But  there's  a  thousand 
ways  ov  doin'  the  same  thing.  I  ha'  seen  folks,  parsons 
and  others,  'at  made  a  great  show  ov  bein'  friendly  to 
the  poor,  ye  know,  sir ;  and  all  the  time  you  could  see, 
or  if  you  couldn't  see  you  could  tell  without  seein',  that 
they  didn't  much  regard  them  in  their  hearts  ;  but  it  was 
a  sort  of  accomplishment  to  be  able  to  talk  to  the  poor, 
like,  after  their  own  fashion.  But  the  minute  an  ould 
man  sees  you,  sir,  he  believes  that  you  7Jiea7i  it,  sir,  what- 
ever it  is.  For  an  ould  man  somehow  comes  to  know 
things  like  a  child.  They  call  it  a  second  childhood, 
don't  they,  sir  %  And  there  are  some  things  worth  growin' 
a  child  again  to  get  a  hould  ov  again." 

"  I  only  hope  what  you  say  may  be  true — about  me, 
I  mean." 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  sir.  You  have  no  idea  how 
that  boy  of  mine,  Tom  there,  did  hate  all  the  clergy  till 
you  come.  Not  that  he's  anyway  favourable  to  them 
yet,  only  he  '11  say  nothin'  again'  you,  sir.  He 's  got  an 
unfortunate  gift  o'  seein*  all  the  faults  first,  sir;  and 


lOO  ANNALS    OF    A   QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

when  a  man  is  that  way  given,  the  faults  always  hides 
the  other  side,  so  that  there 's  nothing  but  faults  to  be 
seen." 

"  But  I  find  Thomas  quite  open  to  reason." 

"  That 's  because  you  understand  him,  sir,  and  know 
how  to  give  him  head.  He  tould  me  of  the  talk  you 
had  with  him.  You  don't  bait  him.  You  don't  say, 
*  You  must  come  along  wi'  me,'  but  you  turns  and  goes 
along  wi'  him.  He 's  not  a  bad  fellow  at  all,  is  Tom ; 
but  he  will  have  the  reason  for  evefythink.  Now  I 
never  did  want  the  reason  for  everything.  I  was  con- 
tent to  be  tould  a  many  things.  But  Tom,  you  see,  he 
was  born  with  a  sore  bit  in  him  somewheres,  I  don't 
rightly  know  wheres ;  and  I  don't  think  he  rightly  knows 
what 's  the  matter  with  him  himself." 

"  I  dare  say  you  have  a  guess  though,  by  this  time, 
Mr  Weir,"  I  said ;  "  and  I  think  I  have  a  guess  too." 

"  Well,  sir,  if  he  'd  only  give  in,  I  think  he  would  be 
far  happier.     But  he  can't  see  his  way  clear." 

"  You  must  give  him  time,  you  know.  The  fact  is,  he 
doesn't  feel  at  home  yet.  And  how  can  he,  so  long  as 
he  doesn't  know  his  own  Father  V 

I  'm  not  sure  that  I  rightly  understand  you,"  said  the 
old  man,  looking  bewildered  and  curious. 

"  I  mean,"  I  answered,  "  that  till  a  man  knows  that 
he  is  one  of  God's  family,  living  in  God's  house,  with 
God  up-stairs,  as  it  were,  while  he  is  at  his  work  or  his 
play  in  a  nursery  below-stairs,  he  can't  feel  comfortable. 
For  a  man  could  not  be  made  that  should  stand  alone, 
like  some  of  the  beasts.     A  man  must  feel  a  head  over 


THE    bishop's    basin.  lOl 

him,  because  he's  not  enough  to  satisfy  himself,  yotj 
know.  Thomas  just  wants  faith;  that  is,  he  wants  to 
feel  that  there  is  a  loving  Father  over  him,  who  is  doing 
things  all  well  and  right,  if  we  could  only  understand 
them,  though  it  really  does  not  look  like  it  sometimes." 

"  Ah,  sir,  I  might  have  understood  you  well  enough, 
if  my  poor  old  head  hadn't  been  started  on  a  wrong 
track.  For  I  fancied  for  the  moment  that  you  were  just 
putting  your  finger  upon  the  sore  place  in  Tom's  mind. 
There's  no  use  in  keeping  family  misfortunes  from  a 
friend  like  you,  sir.  That  boy  has  known  his  father  all 
his  life;  but  I  was  nearly  half  his  age  before  I  knew 
mine." 

"  Strange  !  "  I  said,  involuntarily  almost 

"  Yes,  sir ;  strange  you  may  well  say.  A  strange  story 
it  is.  The  Lord  help  my  mother !  I  beg  yer  pardon, 
sir.  I  'm  no  Catholic  But  that  prayer  will  come  of  it- 
self sometimes.  As  if  it  could  be  of  any  use  now  !  God 
forgive  me ! '' 

"  Don't  you  be  afraid,  Mr  Weir,  as  if  God  was  ready 
to  take  offence  at  what  comes  naturally,  as  you  say.  An 
ejaculation  of  love  is  not  likely  to  offend  Him  who  is  so 
grand  that  He  is  always  meek  and  lowly  of  heart,  and 
whose  love  is  such  that  ours  is  a  mere  faint  light — 'a 
little  glooming  light  much  like  a  shade' — as  one  of  our 
own  poets  says,  beside  it." 

*'  Thank  you,  Mr  Walton.  That 's  a  real  comfortable 
A-^ord,  sir.  And  I  am  heart-sure  it 's  true,  sir.  God  be 
praised  for  evermore !  He  is  good,  sir ;  as  I  have 
known  in  my  poor  time,  sir.     I  don't  believe  there  evei 


102  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

was  one  that  just  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  up'ards,  in- 
stead of  looking  down  to  the  ground,  that  didn't  get 
some  comfort,  to  go  on  with,  as  it  were — the  ready- 
money  of  comfort,  as  it  were — though  it  might  be  none 
to  put  in  the  bank,  sir." 

"That's  true  enough,"  I  said.  "Then  your  father 
and  mother V 

And  here  I  hesitated. 

"  Were  never  married,  sir,"  said  the  old  man  promptly, 
as  if  he  would  relieve  me  from  an  embarrassing  position. 
"  /  couldn't  help  it.  And  I  'm  no  less  the  child  of  my 
Father  in  heaven  for  it.  For  if  He  hadn't  made  me,  I 
couldn't  ha'  been  their  son,  you  know,  sir.  So  that  He 
had  more  to  do  wi'  the  makin'  o'  me  than  they  had ; 
though  mayhap,  if  He  had  His  way  all  out,  I  might  ha' 
been  the  son  o'  somebody  else.  But,  now  that  things 
be  so,  I  wouldn't  have  liked  that  at  all,  sir;  and  bein' 
once  born  so,  I  would  not  have  e'er  another  couple  of 
parents  in  all  England,  sir,  though  I  ne'er  knew  one  o' 
them.  And  I  do  love  my  mother.  And  I  'm  so  sorry 
for  my  father  that  I  love  him  too,  sir.  And  if  I  could 
only  get  my  boy  Tom  to  think  as  I  do,  I  would  die  like 
a  psalm-tune  on  an  organ,  sir." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  strange,"  I  said,  "  that  your  son 
should  think  so  much  of  what  is  so  far  gone  by.  Surely 
he  would  not  want  another  father  than  you,  now.  He 
is  used  to  his  position  in  life.  And  there  can  be  nothing 
cast  up  to  him  about  his  birth  or  descent." 

"  That 's  all  very  true,  sir,  and  no  doubt  it  would  be 
as  you  say.     But  there  has  been  other  things  to  keep 


THE    bishop's    basin.  IOJ 

his  mind  upon  the  old  affair.  Indeed,  sir,  we  have  had 
the  same  misfortune  all  over  again  among  the  young 
people.  And  I  mustn't  say  anything  more  about  it; 
only  my  boy  Tom  has  a  sore  heart." 

I  knew  at  once  to  what  he  alluded  ;  for  I  could  not 
have  been  about  in  my  parish  all  this  time  without  learn- 
ing that  the  strange  handsome  woman  in  the  little  shop 
was  the  daughter  of  Thomas  Weir,  and  that  she  was 
neither  wife  nor  widow.  And  it  now  occurred  to  me  for 
the  first  time  that  it  was  a  likeness  to  her  little  boy  that 
had  affected  me  so  pleasantly  when  I  first  saw  Thomas, 
his  grandfather.  The  likeness  to  his  great-grandfather, 
which  I  saw  plainly  enough,  was  what  made  the  other 
fact  clear  to  me.  And  at  the  same  moment  I  began  to 
be  haunted  with  a  flickering  sense  of  a  third  likeness 
which  I  could  not  in  the  least  fix  or  identify. 

"•  Perhaps,"  I  said,  "  he  may  find  some  good  come 
out  of  that  too." 

*'  Well,  who  knows,  sir  ? " 

"  I  think,"  I  said,  "  that  if  we  do  evil  that  good  may 
come,  the  good  we  looked  for  will  never  come  thereby. 
But  once  evil  is  done,  we  may  humbly  look  to  Him  who 
bringeth  good  out  of  evil,  and  wait.  Is  your  grand- 
daughter Catherine  in  bad  health]  She  looks  so  deli- 
cate ! " 

"  She  always  had  an  uncommon  look.  But  what  she 
looks  like  now,  I  don't  know.  I  hear  no  complaints  ; 
but  siie  has  never  crossed  this  door  since  we  got  her  set 
up  in  that  shop.  She  never  comes  near  her  father  or 
her  sister,  though  she  lets  them,  leastways  her  sister,  go 


I04  ANNALS  OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

and  see  her.  I'm  afraid  Tom  has  been  rayther  un 
merciful  with  her.  And  if  ever  he  put  a  bad  name  upon 
her  in  her  hearing,  I  know,  from  what  that  lass  used  to 
be  as  a  young  one,  that  she  wouldn't  be  likely  to  forget 
it,  and  as  little  likely  to  get  over  it  herself,  or  pass  it 
over  to  another,  even  her  own  father.  I  don't  believe 
they  do  more  nor  nod  to  one  another  when  they  meet 
in  the  village.  It 's  well  even  if  they  do  that  much.  It 's 
my  belief  there 's  some  people  made  so  hard  that  they 
never  can  forgive  anythink." 

"  How  did  she  get  into  the  trouble  1  Who  is  the 
father  of  her  child]" 

*'  Nay,  that  no  one  knows  for  certain ;  though  there 
be  suspicions,  and  one  of  them,  no  doubt,  correct  But, 
L  believe,  fire  wouldn't  drive  his  name  out  at  her  mouth. 
I  know  my  lass.  When  she  says  a  thing,  she  '11  stick 
to  it" 

I  asked  no  more  questions.  But,  after  a  short  pause, 
the  old  man  went  on. 

"  I  shan't  soon  forget  the  night  I  first  heard  about  my 
father  and  mother.  That  was  a  night !  The  wind  was 
roaring  like  a  mad  beast  about  the  house; — not  this 
house,  sir,  but  the  great  house  over  the  way." 

"  You  don't  mean  Oldcastle  Hall?"  I  said. 

"  'Deed  I  do,  sir,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  This 
house  here  belonged  to  the  same  family  at  one  time ; 
though  when  I  was  born  it  was  another  branch  of  the 
family,  second  cousins  or  something,  that  lived  in  it 
But  even  then  it  was  something  on  to  the  downhill  road, 
I  believe." 


THE    bishop's    basin.  IOJ 

'■■  "  But,"  I  said,  fearing  my  question  might  have  turned 
the  old  man  aside  from  a  story  worth  hearing,  "  never 
mind  all  that  now,  if  you  please.  I  am  anxious  to  hear 
all  about  that  night.  Do  go  on.  You  were  saying  the 
wind  was  blowing  about  the  old  house." 

"  Eh,  sir^  it  was  roaring ! — roaring  as  if  it  was  mad 
with  rage  !  And  every  now  and  then  it  would  come 
down  the  chimley  like  out  of  a  gun,  and  blow  the  smoke 
and  a'most  the  fire  into  the  middle  of  the  housekeeper's 
room.  For  the  housekeeper  had  been  giving  me  my 
.supper.  I  called  her  auntie,  then;  and  didn't  know  a 
bit  that  she  wasn't  my  aunt  really.  I  was  at  that  time  a 
kind  of  a  under-gamekeeper  upon  the  place,  and  slept 
over  the  stable.  But  I  fared  of  the  best,  for  I  was  a 
favourite  with  the  old  woman — I  suppose  because  I  had 
given  her  plenty  of  trouble  in  my  time.  That 's  always 
the  way,  sir. — Well,  as  I  was  a-saying,  when  the  wind 
stopped  for  a  moment,  down  came  the  rain  with  a  noise 
that  sounded  like  a  regiment  of  cavalry  on  the  turnpike 
road  t'other  side  of  the  hill.  And  then  up  the  wind  got 
again,  and  swept  the  rain  away,  and  took  it  all  in  its 
own  hand  again,  and  went  on  roaring  worse  than  ever. 
*  You  '11  be  wet  afore  you  get  across  the  yard,  Samuel,' 
said  auntie,  looking  very  prim  in  her  long  white  apron, 
as  she  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  round  table 
before  the  fire,  sipping  a  drop  of  hot  rum  and  water, 
which  she  always  had  before  she  went  to  bed.  '  You'll 
be  wet  to  the  skin,  Samuel,'  she  said.  '  Never  mind,* 
says  I.  '  I  'm  not  salt,  nor  yet  sugar;  and  I  '11  be  going, 
auntie,  for  you  '11  be  wanting  your  bed.' — '  Sit  ye  still,' 


lo6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIFT    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

said  she.  *  I  don't  want  my  bed  yet'  And  there  she 
sat,  sipping  at  her  rum  and  water ;  and  there  I  sat,  o' 
the  other  side,  drinking  the  last  of  a  pint  of  October, 
she  had  gotten  me  from  the  cellar — for  I  had  been  out 
in  the  wind  all  day.  '  It  was  just  such  a  night  as  thi?;,' 
said  she,  and  then  stopped  again. — But  I'm  wearying 
you,  sir,  with  my  long  story." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  answered.  "  Quite  the  contrary. 
Pray  tell  it  out  your  own  way.  You  won't  tire  me,  I 
assure  you." 

So  the  old  man  went  on. 

"  *  It  was  just  such  a  night  as  this,'  she  began  again — 
'leastways  it  was  snow  and  not  rain  that  was  coming 
down,  as  if  the  Almighty  was  a-going  to  spend  all  His 
winter-stock  at  oncet' — '  What  happened  such  a  night, 
auntie*?'  I  said.  'Ah,  my  lad!'  said  she,  'ye  may  well 
ask  what  happened.  None  has  a  better  right.  You 
happened.  That 's  all.' — *  Oh,  that 's  all,  is  it,  auntie  V 
I  said,  and  laughed.  *  Nay,  nay|' Samuel,'  said  she,  quite 
solemn,  '  what  is  there  to  laugh  at,  then  1  I  assure  you, 
you  was  anything  but  welcome.' — 'And  why  wasn't  I 
welcome?'  I  said.  'I  couldn't  help  it,  you  know.  I'm 
very  sorry  to  hear  I  intruded,'  I  said,  still  making  game 
of  it,  you  see;  for  I  always  did  like  a  joke.  '  Well,'  she 
said,  '  you  certainly  wasn't  wanted.  But  I  don't  blame 
you,  Samuel,  and  I  hope  you  won't  blame  me.' — '  What 
ao  you  mean,  auntie  V  '  I  mean  this,  that  it's  my  fault, 
if  so  be  that  fault  it  is,  that  you  're  sitting  there  now,  and 
not  lying,  in  less  bulk  by  a  good  deal,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  Bishop's  Basin.'     That 's  what  they  call  a  deep  pond 


THE    bishop's    basin.  IOJ 

at  the  foot  of  the  old  house,  sir;  though  why  or  where- 
fore, I  'm  sure  I  don't  know.  '  Most  extraordinary, 
auntie !'  I  said,  feehng  very  queer,  and  as  if  I  really  had 
no  business  to  be  there.  '  Never  you  mind,  my  dear,* 
says  she ;  '  there  you  are,  and  you  can  take  care  of  your- 
self now  as  well  as  anybody.' — '  But  who  wanted  to 
drown  mef  *Are  you  sure  you  can  forgive  him,  if  I 
tell  you  V — '  Sure  enough,  suppose  he  was  sitting  where 
you  be  now,'  I  answered.  '  It  was,  I  make  no  doubt, 
though  I  can't  prove  it, — I  am  morally  certain  it  was 
your  own  father.'  I  felt  the  skin  go  creepin  together 
upon  my  head,  and  I  couldn't  speak.  '  Yes,  it  was, 
child ;  and  it 's  time  you  knew  all  about  it.  Why,  you 
don't  know  who  your  own  father  was  ! ' — '  No  more  I  do,' 
I  said ;  '  and  I  never  cared  to  ask,  somehow.  I  thought 
it  was  all  right,  I  suppose.  But  I  wonder  now  that  I 
never  did.' — '  Indeed  you  did  many  a  time,  when  you 
was  a  mere  boy,  like;  but  I  suppose,  as  you  never  was 
answered,  you  give  it  up  for  a  bad  job,  and  forgot  all 
about  it,  like  a  wise  man.  You  always  was  a  wise  child, 
Samuel.'  So  the  old  lady  always  said,  sir.  And  I  was 
willing  to  believe  she  was  right,  if  I  could.  '  But  now,' 
said  she,  '  it 's  time  you  knew  all  about  it. — Poor  Miss 
Wallis  ! — I  'm  no  aunt  of  yours,  my  boy,  though  I  love 
you  nearly  as  well,  I  think,  as  if  I  was;  for  dearly  did  I 
love  your  mother.  She  was  a  beauty,  and  better  than 
she  was  beautiful,  whatever  folks  may  say.  The  only 
\\T:ong  thing,  I  'm  certain,  that  she  ever  did,  was  to  trust 
your  father  too  much.  But  I  must  see  and  give  you  tlie 
story  right  through  from  beginning  to  end. — Miss  Wallis, 


lOS  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

as  I  came  to  know  from  her  own  lips,  was  the  daughtei 
of  a  country  attorney,  who  had  a  good  practice,  and  was 
likely  to  leave  her  well  off.  Her  mother  died  when  she 
was  a  little  girl.  It's  not  easy  getting  on  without  a 
mother,  my  boy.  So  she  wasn't  taught  much  of  the  best 
sort,  I  reckon.  When  her  father  died  early,  and  she 
was  left  alone,  the  only  thing  she  could  do  was  to  take 
a  governess's  place,  and  she  came  to  us.  She  never  got 
on  well  with  the  children,  for  they  were  young  and  self 
willed  and  rude,  and  would  not  learn  to  do  as  ihey  were 
bid.  I  never  knew  one  o'  them  shut  the  door  when  they 
went  out  of  this  room.  And,  from  having  had  all  her 
own  way  at  home,  with  plenty  of  £,ervants,  and  money 
to  spend,  it  was  a  sore  change  to  her.  But  she  was  a 
sweet  creature,  that  she  was.  She  did  look  sorely  tried 
when  Master  Freddy  would  get  on  the  back  of  her  chair, 
and  Miss  Gusta  would  lie  down  on  the  rug,  and  never 
stir  for  all  she  could  say  to  them,  but  only  laugh  at  her. 
— To  be  sure  !'  And  then  auntie  would  take  a  sip  at 
her  rum  and  water,. and  sit  considering  old  times  like  a 
statie.  And  I  sat  as  if  all  my  head  was  one  great  ear, 
and  1  never  spoke  a  word.  And  auntie  began  again. 
*  The  way  I  came  to  know  so  much  about  her  was  this. 
Nobody,  you  see,  took  any  notice  or  care  of  her.  For 
the  children  were  kept  away  with  her  in  the  old  house, 
and  my  lady  wasn't  one  to  take  trouble  about  anybody 
till  (5nce  she  stood  in  her  way,  and  then  she  would  just 
shove  her  aside  or  crush  her  like  a  spider,  and  ha'  done 
with  her.' — They  have  always  been  a  proud  and  a  fierce 
face,  the  OldcasLles,  sir,"  said  Weir,  taking  up  the  speech 


THE    BISHOP   S    BASIN.  IO5 

in  his  own  person,  "and  there's  been  a  deal  o'  breedin 
in-and-in  amongst  them,  and  that  has  kept  up  the  worst 
of  them.  The  men  took  to  the  women  of  their  own  sort 
somehow,  you  see.  The  lady  up  at  the  old  Hall  now  is 
a  Crowfoot.  I  '11  just  tell  you  one  thing  the  gardener 
told  me  about  her  years  ago,  sir.  She  had  a  fancy  for 
hyacinths  in  her  rooms  in  the  spring,  and  she  had  some 
particular  fine  ones ;  and  a  lady  of  her  acquaintance 
begged  for  some  of  them.  And  what  do  you  think  she 
did?  She  couldn't  refuse  them,  and  she  couldn't  bear 
any  one  to  have  them  as  good  as  she.  And  so  she  sent 
the  hyacinth-roots — but  she  boiled  'em  first.  The  gar- 
dener, told  me  himself,  sir. — 'And  so,  when  the  poor 
thing,'  said  auntie,  'was  taken  with  a  dreadful  cold, 
which  was  no  wonder  if  you  saw  the  state  of  the  window 
in  the  room  she  had  to  sleep  in,  and  which  I  got  old  Jones 
to  set  to  riglits  and  paid  him  for  it  out  of  my  own  pocket, 
else  he  wouldn't  ha'  done  it  at  all,  for  the  family  wasn't  too 
much  in  the  way  or  the  means  either  of  paying  their  debts 
— well,  there  she  was,  and  nobody  minding  her,  and  of 
course  it  fell  to  me  to  look  after  her.  It  would  have 
made  your  heart  bleed  to  see  the  poor  thing  flung  all  of 
a  heap  on  her  bed,  blue  with  cold  and  coughing.  "  My 
dear ! "  I  said  ;  and  she  burst  out  crying,  and  from  tliat 
moment  there  was  confidence  between  us.  I  made  her 
as  warm  and  as  comfortable  as  I  could,  but  I  had  to  nurse 
her  for  a  fortnight  before  she  was  able  to  do  anything 
again.  She  didn't  shirk  her  work  though,  poor  thing. 
It  was  a  heartsore  to  me  to  see  the  poor  young  thing, 
with  her  sweet  eyes  and  her  pale  face,  talking  away  to 


no  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

those  children,  that  were  more  like  wild  cats  than  human 
beings.  She  might  as  well  have  talked  to  wild  cats,  I  'ra 
sure.  But  I  don't  think  she  was  ever  so  miserable  again 
as  she  must  have  been  before  her  illness ;  for  she  used 
often  to  come  and  see  me  of  an  evening,  and  she  would 
sit  there  where  you  are  sitting  now  for  an  hour  at  a  time, 
without  speaking,  her  thin  white  hands  lying  folded  in 
her  lap,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire.  I  used  to 
wonder  what  she  could  be  thinking  about,  and  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  she  was  not  long  for  this  world ; 
when  all  at  once  it  was  announced  that  Miss  Oldcastle, 
who  had  been  to  school  for  some  time,  was  coming 
home ;  and  then  we  began  to  see  a  great  deal  of  com- 
pany, and  for  month  after  month  the  house  was  more  or 
less  filled  with  visitors,  so  that  my  time  was  constantly 
taken  up,  and  I  saw  much  less  of  poor  Miss  Wallis  than 
I  had  seen  before.  But  when  we  did  meet  on  some  of 
the  back  stairs,  or  when  she  came  to  my  room  for  a  few 
minutes  before  going  to  bed,  we  were  just  as  good 
friends  as  ever.  And  I  used  to  say,  "  I  wish  this  scurry 
was  over,  my  dear,  that  we  might  have  our  old  times 
again."  And  she  would  smile  and  say  something  sweet. 
But  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  her  health  began  to 
come  back — at  least  so  it  seemed  to  me,  for  her  eyes 
grew  brighter  and  a  flush  came  upon  her  pale  face,  and 
though  the  children  were  as  tiresome  as  ever,  she  didn't 
seem  to  mind  it  so  much.  But  indeed  she  had  not 
very  much  to  do  with  them  out  of  school  hours  now; 
for  when  the  spring  came  on,  they  would  be  out  and 
about  the  place  with  their  sister  or  one  of  their  brothers; 


THE    bishop's    basin.  Ill 

and  indeed,  out  of  doors  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  Miss  Wallis  to  do  anything  with  them.  Some  of  the 
visitors  would  take  to  them  too,  for  they  behaved  so 
badly  to  nobody  as  to  Miss  Wallis,  and  indeed  they 
were  clever  children,  and  could  be  engaging  enough 
when  they  pleased. — But  then  I  had  a  blow,  Samuel. 
It  was  a  lovely  spring  night,  just  after  the  sun  was 
down,  and  I  wanted  a  drop  of  milk  fresh  from  the  cow 
for  something  that  I  was  making  for  dinner  the  next 
day ;  so  I  went  through  the  kitchen-garden  and  through 
the  belt  of  young  larches  to  go  to  the  shippen.  But 
when  I  got  among  the  trees,  who  should  I  see  at  the 
other  end  of  the  path  that  went  along,  but  Miss  Wallis 
walking  arm-in-arm  with  Captain  Crowfoot,  who  was  just 
home  from  India,  where  he  had  been  with  Lord  Clive. 
The  captain  was  a  man  about  two  or  three  and  thirty, 
a  relation  of  the  family,  and  the  son  of  Sir  Giles  Crow- 
foot'— who  lived  then  in  this  old  house,  sir,  and  had  but 
that  one  son,  my  father,  you  see,  sir. — *  And  it  did  give 
me  a  turn,'  said  my  aunt,  *  to  see  her  walking  with  him, 
for  I  felt  as  sure  as  judgment  that  no  good  could  come 
of  it.  For  the  captain  had  not  the'  best  of  characters^ 
that  is,  when  people  talked  about  him  in  chimney 
corners,  and  such  like,  though  he  was  a  great  favourite 
with  everybody  that  knew  nothing  about  him.  He  was 
a  fine,  manly,  handsome  fellow,  with  a  smile  that,  as 
people  said,  no  woman  could  resist,  though  I  'm  sure  it 
would  have  given  me  no  trouble  to  resist  it,  whatever 
they  may  mean  by  that,  for  I  saw  that  that  same  smile 
was  the  falsest  thing  of  all  the  false  things  about  him. 


112  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

All  the  time  he  was  smiling,  you  would  have  thought  he 
was  looking  at  himself  in  a  glass.  He  was  said  to  have 
gathered  a  power  of  money  in  India,  somehow  or  other. 
But  I  don't  know,  only  I  don't  think  he  would  have 
been  the  favourite  he  was  with  my  lady  if  he  hadn't. 
And  reports  were  about,  too,  of  the  ways  and  means  by 
which  he  had  made  the  money ;  some  said  by  robbing 
the  poor  heathen  creatures ;  and  some  said  it  was  only 
that  his  brother  officers  didn't  approve  of  his  speculating 
as  he  did  in  horses  and  other  things.  I  don't  know 
^yhether  officers  are  so  particular.  At  all  events,  this 
was  a  fact,  for  it  was  one  of  his  own  servants  that  told 
me,  not  thinking  any  harm  or  any  shame  of  it.  He  had 
quarrelled  with  a  young  ensign  in  the  regiment.  On 
which  side  the  wrong  was,  I  don't  know.  But  he  first 
thrashed  him  most  unmercifully,  and  then  called  him 
out,  as  they  say.  And  when  the  poor  fellow  appeared, 
he  could  scarcely  see  out  of  his  eyes,  and  certainly 
couldn't  take  anything  like  an  aim.  And  he  shot  him 
dead,  did  Captain  Crowfoot.' — Think  of  hearing  that 
about  one's  own  father,  sir !  But  I  never  said  a  word, 
for  I  hadn't  a  word  to  say. — *  Think  of  that,  Samuel,' 
said  my  aunt,  '  else  you  won't  believe  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you.  And  you  won't  even  then,  I  dare  say.  But  I 
must  tell  you,  nevertheless  and  notwithstanding. — Well, 
I  felt  as  if  the  earth  was  sinking  ?.way  from  under  the 
feet  of  me,  and  I  stood  and  stared  at  them.  And  they 
came  on,  never  seeing  me,  and  actually  went  close  past 
me  and  never  saw  me;  at  least,  if  he  saw  me  he  took  no 
notice,  for  I  don't  suppose  that  the  angel  with  the  flam 


THE    bishop's    basin.  II3 

ing  sword  would  have  put  him  out.  But  for  her,  I  know 
she  didn't  see  me,  for  her  face  was  down,  burning  and 
smiUng  at  once.' — I  'm  an  old  man  now,  sir,  and  I  never 
saw  my  mother;  but  I  can't  tell  you  the  story  without 
feeling  as  if  my  heart  would  break  for  the  poor  young 
lady. — *  I  went  back  to  my  room,'  said  my  aunt,  *  with 
my  empty  jug  in  my  hand,  and  I  sat  down  as  if  I  had 
had  a  stroke,  and  I  never  moved  till  it  was  pitch  dark 
and  my  fire  out.  It  was  a  marvel  to  me  afterwards  that 
nobody  came  near  me,  for  everybody  was  calling  after 
me  at  that  time.  And  it  was  days  before  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Miss  WalUs  again,  at  least  to  speak  to  her. 
At  last,  one  night  she  came  to  my  room ;  and  without  a 
moment  of  parley,  I  said  to  her,  "  Oh,  my  dear !  what 
was  that  wretch  saying  to  you  1 " — "  What  wretch  ? "  says 
she,  quite  sharp  like.  "Why,  Captain  Crowfoot,"  says 
I,  "  to  be  sure." — "  What  have  you  to  say  against  Cap- 
tain Crowfoot?"  says  she,  quite  scornful  like.  So  I 
tumbled  out  all  I  had  against  him  in  one  breath.  She 
turned  awful  pale,  and  she  shook  from  head  to  foot,  but 
she  was  able  for  all  that  to  say,  *'  Indian  servants  are 
known  liars,  Mrs  Prendergast,"  says  she,  "  and  I  don't 
believe  one  word  of  it  all.  But  I  '11  ask  him,  the  next 
time  I  see  him." — "  Do  so,  my  dear,"  I  said,  not  fearing 
for  myself,  for  I  knew  he  would  not  make  any  fuss  that 
might  bring  the  thing  out  into  the  air,  and  hoping  that 
it  might  lead  to  a  quarrel  between  them.  And  the  next 
time  I  met  her,  Samuel — it  was  in  the  gallery  that  takes 
to  the  west  turret — she  passed  me  with  a  nod  just,  and 
a  blush  instead  of  a  smile  on  her  sweet  face.     And  I 


114  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

didn't  bkme  her,  Samuel ;  but  I  knew  that  that  villain 
had  gotten  a  hold  of  her.  And  so  I  could  only  cry,  and 
that  I  did.  Things  went  on  like  this  for  some  months. 
The  captain  came  and  went,  stopping  a  week  at  a  time. 
Then  he  stopped  for  a  whole  month,  and  this  was  in  the 
first  of  the  summer;  and  then  he  said  he  was  ordered 
abroad  again,  and  went  away.  But  he  didn't  go  abroad. 
He  came  again  in  the  autumn  for  the  shooting,  and 
began  to  make  up  to  Miss  Oldcastle,  who  had  grown  a 
fine  young  woman  by  that  time.  And  then  Miss  Wallis 
began  to  pine.  The  captain  went  away  again.  Before 
long  I  was  certain  that  if  ever  young  creature  was  in  a 
consumption,  she  was;  but  she  never  said  a  word  to 
me.  How  ever  the  poor  thing  got  on  with  her  work,  I 
can't  think,  but  she  grew  weaker  and  weaker.  I  took 
the  best  care  of  her  she  would  let  me,  and  contrived 
that  she  should  have  her  meals  in  her  own  room ;  but 
something  was  between  her  and  me  that  she  never 
spoke  a  word  about  herself,  and  never  alluded  to  the 
captain.  By  and  by  came  the  news  that  the  captain 
and  Miss  Oldcastle  were  to  be  married  in  the  spring. 
And  Miss  Wallis  took  to  her  bed  after  that;  and  my 
lady  said  she  had  never  been  of  much  use,  and  wanted 
to  send  her  away.  But  Miss  Oldcastle,  who  was  far 
superior  to  any  of  the  rest  in  her  disposition,  spoke 
up  for  her.  She  had  been  to  ask  me  about  her,  and  I 
told  her  the  poor  thing  must  go  to  a  hospital  if  she  was 
sent  away,  for  she  had  ne'er  a  home  to  go  to.  And 
then  she  went  to  see  the  governess,  poor  thing !  and 
spoke  very  kindly  to  her ;  but  never  a  word  would  Mis« 


THE    BISHOP   S    BASIN.  H£ 

Wallis  answer;  she  only  stared  at  her  with  great,  big,  wild- 
like eyes.  And  Mis-s  Oldcastle  thought  she  was  out  of 
her  mind,  and  spoke  of  an  asylum.  But  I  said  she  hadn't 
long  to  live,  and  if  she  would  get  my  lady  her  mother  to 
consent  to  take  no  notice,  I  would  take  all  the  care  and 
trouble  of  her.  And  she  promised,  and  the  poor  thing 
was  left  alone.  I  began  to  think  myself  her  mind  must 
be  going,  for  not  a  word  would  she  speak,  even  to  me, 
though  every  moment  I  could  spare  I.  was  up  with  her 
in  her  room.  Only  I  was  forced  to  be  careful  not  to  be 
out  of  the  way  when  my  lady  wanted  me,  for  that  would 
have  tied  me  more.  At  length  one  day,  as  I  was  settling 
her  pillow  for  her,  she  all  at  once  threw  her  arms  about 
my  neck,  and  burst  into  a  terrible  fit  of  crying.  She 
sobbed  and  panted  for  breath  so  dreadfully,  that  I  put 
my  arms  round  her  and  lifted  her  up  to  give  her  relief; 
and  when  I  laid  her  down  again,  I  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"  I  know  now,  my  dear.  1 11  do  all  I  can  for  you." 
She  caught  hold  of  my  hand  and  held  it  to  her  lips,  and 
then  to  her  bosom,  and  cried  again,  but  more  quietly, 
and  all  was  right  between  us  once  more.  It  was  well 
for  her,  poor  thing,  that  she  could  go  to  her  bed.  And 
I  said  to  myself,  "Nobody  need  ever  know  about  it; 
and  nobody  ever  shall  if  I  can  help  it."  To  tell  the 
truth,  my  hope  was  that  she  would  die  before  there 
was  any  need  for  further  concealment.  But  people  in 
that  condition  seldom  die,  they  say,  till  all  is  over ;  and 
so  she  lived  on  and  on,  though  plainly  getting  weaker 
and  weaker. — At  the  captain's  next  visit,  the  wedding- 
day  was  fixed.     And  after  that  a  circumstance  came 


ri6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

about  that  made  me  uneasy.  A  Hindoo  servant — the 
captain  called  him  his  nigger  always — had  been  con- 
stantly in  attendance  upon  him.  I  never  could  abide 
the  snake-look  of  the  fellow,  nor  the  noiseless  way  he 
went  about  the  house.  But  this  time  the  captain  had  a 
Hindoo  woman  with  him  as  well.  He  said  that  his 
man  had  fallen  in  with  her  in  London;  that  he  had 
known  her  before ;  that  she  had  come  home  as  nurse 
with  an  English  family,  and  it  would  be  very  nice  for 
his  wife  to  take  her  back  with  her  to  India,  if  she  could 
only  give  her  house  room,  and  make  her  useful  till  after 
the  wedding.  This  was  easily  arranged,  and  he  went 
away  to  return  in  three  weeks,  when  the  wedding  was 
to  take  place.  Meantime  poor  Emily  grew  fast  worse, 
and  how  she  held  out  with  that  terrible  cough  of  hers  I 
never  could  understand — and  spitting  blood,  too,  every 
other  hour  or  so,  though  not  very  much.  And  now,  to 
my  great  trouble,  with  the  preparations  for  the  wedding, 
I  could  see  yet  less  of  her  than  before  ;  and  when  Miss 
Oldcastle  sent  the  Hindoo  to  ask  me  if  she  might  not 
sit  in  the  room  with  the  poor  girl,  I  did  not  know  how 
to  object,  though  I  did  not  at  all  like  her  being  there. 
I  felt  a  great  mistrust  of  the  woman  somehow  or  other. 
I  never  did  like  blacks,  and  I  never  shall.  So  she  went, 
and  .sat  by  her,  and  waited  on  her  very  kindly — at  least 
poor  Emily  said  so.  I  called  her  Emily  because  she  had 
begged  me,  that  she  might  feel  as  if  her  mother  were  with 
her,  and  she  was  a  child  again.  I  had  tried  before  to 
find  out  from  her  when  greater  care  would  be  necessary, 
but  she  couldn't  tell  me  anything.     I  doubted  even  i/ 


THE    BISHOP   S    BASIN.  117 

she  understood  me.  I  longed  to  have  the  wedding  ove; 
that  I  might  get  rid  of  the  black  woman,  and  have  time 
to  take  her  place,  and  get  everything  prepared.  The 
cajjtain  arrived,  and  his  man  with  him.  And  twice  I 
came  upon  the  two  blacks  in  close  conversation. — Well, 
the  wedding-day  came.  The  people  went  to  church; 
and  while  they  were  there  a  terrible  storm  of  wind  and 
snow  came  on,  such  that  the  horses  would  hardly  face  it. 
The  captain  was  going  to  take  his  bride  home  to  his 
father,  Sir  Giles's ;  but,  short  as  the  distance  was,  before 
the  time  came  the  storm  got  so  dreadful  that  no  one 
could  think  of  leaving  the  house  that  night.  The  wind 
blew  for  all  the  world  just  as  it  blows  this  night,  only  it 
was  snow  in  its  mouth,  and  not  rain.  Carriage  and 
horses  and  all  would  have  been  blown  off  the  road  for 
certain.  It  did  blow,  to  be  sure !  After  dinner  was 
over  and  the  ladies  were  gone  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
the  gentlemen  had  been  sitting  over  their  wine  for  some 
time,  the  butler,  William  Weir — an  honest  man,  whose 
wife  lived  at  the  lodge — came  to  my  room  looking 
scared.  "  Lawks,  William  !  "  says  I,'  said  my  aunt,  sir, 
'"whatever  is  the  matter  with  you?" — "Well,  Mrs 
Prendergast ! "  says  he,  and  said  no  more.  "  Lawks, 
William,"  says  I,  "  speak  out." — "  Well,"  says  he,  "  Mrs 
Prendergast,  it 's  a  strange  wedding,  it  is  !  There  's  the 
ladies  all  alone  in  the  withdrawing-room,  and  there's  the 
gentlemen  calling  for  more  wine,  and  cursing  and  swear- 
ing that  it's  awful  to  hear.  It's  my  belief  that  swords 
'11  be  drawn  afore  long." — "  Tut ! "  says  I,  "  William,  it 
li  come  the  sooner  if  you  don't  give  them  what  tliey 


Il8  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

want.  Go  and  get  it  as  fast  as  you  can." — "  I  don 't 
a'most  like  goin'  down  them  stairs  alone,  in  sich  a  night, 
ma'am,"  says  he.  "  Would  you  mind'  coming  with  me  f 
— "  Dear  me,  William,"  says  I,  "  a  pretty  story  to  tell 
your  wife" — she  was  my  own  half  sister,  and  younger 
than  me — "a  pretty  story  to  tell  your  wife,  that  you 
Tvanted  an  old  body  like  me  to  go  and  take  care  of  you 
in  your  own  cellar,"  says  I.  "  But  I  '11  go  with  you,  if 
you  like;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  it's  a  terrible  night." 
A.nd  so  down  we  went,  and  brought  up  six  bottles  more 
of  the  best  port.  And  I  really  didn't  wonder,  when  I 
was  down  there,  and  heard  the  dull  roar  of  the  wind 
against  the  rock  below,  that  William  didn't  much  like  to 
go  alone. — When  he  went  back  with  the  wine,  the  cap- 
tain said,  "  William,  what  kept  you  so  long  ?  Mr  Cent- 
livre  says  that  you  were  afraid  to  go  down  into  the 
cellar."  Now,  wasn't  that  odd,  for  it  was  a  real  fact  1 
Before  William  could  reply.  Sir  Giles  said,  "A  man 
might  well  be  afraid  to  go  anywhere  alone  in  a  night 
like  this."  Whereupon  the  captain  cried,  with  an  oath, 
that  he  would  go  down  the  underground  stair,  and  into 
every  vault  on  the  way,  for  the  wager  of  a  guinea.  And 
there  the  matter,  according  to  William,  dropped,  for  the 
fresh  wine  was  put  on  the  table.  But  after  they  had 
drunk  the  most  of  it — the  captain,  according  to  William, 
drinking  less  than  usual — it  was  brought  up  again,  he 
couldn't  tell  by  which  of  them.  And  in  five  minutes 
after,  they  were  all  at  my  door,  demanding  the  key  of 
the  room  at  the  top  of  the  stair.  I  was  just  going  up  to 
see  poor  Emily  when  I  heard  the  noise  of  their  unsteady 


THE    bishop's    basin.  IIQ 

feet  coming  along  the  passage  to  my  door;  and  1  gave 
the  captain  the  key  at  once,  wishing  with  all  my  heart 
he  might  get  a  good  fright  for  his  pains.  He  took  a  jug 
with  him,  too,  to  bring  some  water  up  from  the  well,  as 
a  proof  he  had  been  down.  The  rest  of  the  gentlemen 
went  with  him  into  the  little  cellar-room;  but  they 
wouldn't  stop  there  till  he  came  up  again,  they  said  it 
was  so  cold.  They  all  came  into  my  room,  where  they 
talked  as  gentlemen  wouldn't  do  if  the  wine  hadn't  got 
uppermost  It  was  some  time  before  the  captain  re- 
turned. It's  a  good  way  down  and  back.  When  he 
came  in  at  last,  he  looked  as  if  he  had  got  the  fright  I 
wished  him,  he  had  such  a  scared  look.  The  candle  in 
his  lantern  was  out,  and  there  was  no  water  in  the  jug. 
•'  There  's  your  guinea,  Centlivre,"  says  he,  throwing  it 
on  the  table.  "  You  needn't  ask  me  any  questions,  for 
I  won't  answer  one  of  them." — "  Captain,"  says  I,  as  he 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  and  the  other  gentlemen  rose 
to  follow  him,  "  I  '11  just  hang  up  the  key  again." — "  By 
all  means,"  says  he.  "  Where  is  it,  then  1 "  says  I.  He 
started  and  made  as  if  he  searched  his  pockets  all  over 
for  it.  "  I  must  have  dropped  it,"  says  he  ;  "  but  it 's  of 
no  consequence ;  you  can  send  William  to  look  for  it  in 
the  morning.  It  can't  be  lost,  you  know." — "  Very  well, 
captain,"  said  I.  But  I  didn't  Hke  being  without  the 
key,  because  of  course  he  hadn't  locked  the  door,  and 
that  part  of  the  house  has  a  bad  name,  an^  no  wonder. 
It  wasn't  exactly  pleasant  to  have  the  door  left  open. 
All  this  time  I  couldn't  get  to  see  how  Emily  was.  As 
often  as  I  looked  from  my  window,  I  saw  her  light  in 


I20  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

the  old  west  turret  out  there,  Samuel.  You  know  the 
room  where  the  bed  is  still.  The  rain  and  the  wind  will 
be  blowing  right  through  it  to-night.  That's  the  bed 
you  was  born  upon,  Samuel.' — It's  all  gone  now,  sir, 
turret  and  all,  like  a  good  deal  more  about  the  old 
place ;  but  there  's  a  story  about  that  turret  afterwards, 
only  I  mustn't  try  to  tell  you  two  things  at  once. — '  Now 
I  had  told  the  Indian  woman  that  if  anything  happened, 
if  she  was  worse,  or  wanted  to  see  me,  she  must  put  the 
candle  on  the  right  side  of  the  window,  and  I  should 
always  be  looking  out,  and  would  come  directly,  who- 
ever might  wait.  For  I  was  expecting  you  some  time 
soon,  and  nobody  knew  anything  about  when  you  might 
come.  But  there  the  blind  continued  drawn  down  as 
before.  So  I  thought  all  was  going  on  right.  And  what 
with  the  storm  keeping  Sir  Giles  and  so  many  more  that 
would  have  gone  home  that  night,  there  was  no  end  of 
work,  and  some  contrivance  necessary,  I  can  tell  you,  to 
get  them  all  bedded  for  the  night,  for  we  were  nothing 
too  well  provided  with  blankets  and  linen  in  the  house. 
There  was  always  more  room  than  money  in  it.  So  it 
was  past  twelve  o'clock  before  I  had  a  minute  to  my- 
self, and  that  was  only  after  they  had  all  gone  to 
bed — the  bride  and  bridegroom  in  the  crimson  cham- 
ber, of  course.  Well,  at  last  I  crept  quietly  into 
Emily's  room.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  that  I  had 
not  let  her.  know  anything  about  the  wedding  being 
that  day,  and  had  enjoined  the  heathen  woman  not 
/,o  say  a  word ;  for  I  thought  she  might  as  well  die 
without  hearing  about  it.     But  I  believe  the  vile  wietch 


THE    bishop's    basin. 


did  tell  her.  When  I  opened  the  room-door,  there 
was  no  light  there.  I  spoke,  but  no  one  answered.  I 
had  my  own  candle  in  my  hand,  but  it  had  been  blown 
out  as  I  came  up  the  stair.  I  turned  and  ran  along  the 
corridor  to  reach  the  main  stair,  which  was  the  nearest 
way  to  my  room,  when  all  at  once  I  heard  such  a  shriek 
from  the  crimson  chamber  as  I  never  heard  in  my  life. 
It  made  me  all  creep  like  worms.  And  in  a  moment 
doors  and  doors  were  opened,  and  lights  came  out, 
everybody  looking  terrified;  and  what  with  drink,  and 
horror,  and  sleep,  some  of  the  gentlemen  were  awful 
to  look  upon.  And  the  door  of  the  crimson  chamber 
opened  too,  and  the  captain  appeared  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  bawling  out  to  know  what  was  the  matter ;  though 
I'm  certain,  to  this  day,  the  cry  did  come  from  that 
room,  and  that  he  knew  more  about  it  than  any  one  else 
did.  As  soon  as  I  got  a  light,  however,  which  I  did 
from  Sir  Giles's  candle,  I  left  them  to  settle  it  amongst 
them,  and  ran  back  to  the  west  turret.  When  I  entered 
the  room,  there  was  my  dear  girl  lying  white  and  motion- 
less. There  could  be  no  doubt  a  baby  had  been  born, 
but  no  baby  was  to  be  seen.  I  rushed  to  the  bed ;  but 
though  she  was  still  warm,  your  poor  mother  was  quite 
dead.  There  was  no  use  in  thinking  about  helping  her ; 
but  what  could  have  become  of  the  child  1  As  if  by  a 
light  in  my  mind,  I  saw  it  all.  I  rushed  down  to  rny 
room,  got  my  lanterli,  and,  without  waiting  to  be  afraid, 
ran  to  the  underground  stairs,  where  I  actually  found 
the  door  standing  open.  I  had  not  gone  down  more 
than  three  turnings,  when  I  thought  I  heard  a  cry,  and 


122  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

J  sped  faster  still.  And  just  about  half-way  down,  there 
lay  a  bundle  in  a  blanket.  And  how  ever  you  got  over 
the  state  T  found  you  in,  Samuel,  I  can't  think.  But  1 
caught  you  up  as  you  was,  and  ran  to  my  own  room  with 
you;  and  I  locked  the  door,  and  there  being  a  kettle 
on  the  fire,  and  some  conveniences  in  the  place,  I  did 
the  best  for  you  I  could.  For  the  breath  wasn't  out  of 
you,  though  it  well  might  have  been.  And  then  I  laid 
you  before  the  fire,  and  by  that  time  you  had  begun  to 
cry  a  little,  to  my  great  pleasure,  and  then  I  got  a  blanket 
off  my  bed,  and  wrapt  you  up  in  it;  and,  the  storm 
being  abated  by  this  time,  made  the  best  of  my  way 
with  you  through  the  snow  to  the  lodge,  where  William's 
wife  lived.  It  was  not  so  far  off  then  as  it  is  now.  But 
in  the  midst  of  my  trouble  the  silly  body  did  make  me 
laugh  when  he  opened  the  door  to  me,  and  saw  the 
bundle  in  my  arms.  "  Mrs  Prendergast,"  says  he,  "  I 
didn't  expect  it  of  you." — "  Hold  your  tongue,"  I  said. 
"  You  would  never  have  talked  such  nonsense  if  you 
had  had  the  grace  to  have  any  of  your  own,"  says  I. 
And  with  that  I  into  the  bedroom  and  shut  the  door, 
and  left  him  out  there  in  his  shirt  My  sister  and  I 
soon  got  everything  arranged,  for  there  was  no  time  to 
lose.  And  before  morning  I  had  all  made  tidy,  and 
your  poor  motlier  lying  as  sweet  a  corpse  as  ever  angel 
saw.  And  no  one  could  say  a  word  against  her.  And 
it 's  my  belief  that  that  villain  made  her  believe  somehow 
or  other  that  she  was  as  good  as  married  to  him.  She 
was  buried  down  there  in  the  churchyard,  close  by  the 
vestry-door,*  said  my  aunt,  sir;  and  all  of  our  family  have 


THE    BISHOP   S    BASIN.  I23 

been  buried  there  ever  since,  my  son  Tom's  wife  among 
them,  sir." 

"But  what  was  that  cry  in  the  house?"  I  asked 
*'  And  what  became  of  the  black  woman  1" 

*' The  woman  was  never  seen  again  in  our  quarter; 
and  what  the  cry  was  my  aunt  never  would  say.  She 
seemed  to  know  though ;  notwithstanding,  as  she  said, 
that  Captain  and  Mrs  Crowfoot  denied  all  knowledge  oi 
it.  But  the  lady  looked  dreadful,  she  said,  and  never 
was  well  again,  and  died  at  the  birth  of  her  first  child. 
That  was  the  present  Mrs  Oldcastle's  father,  sir." 

"  But  why  should  the  woman  have  left  you  on  the 
stair,  instead  of  drowning  you  in  the  well  at  the  bot- 
tom T' 

"  My  aunt  evidently  thought  there  was  some  mystery 
about  that  as  well  as  the  other,  for  she  had  no  doubt 
about  the  woman's  intention.  But  all  she  would  ever 
say  concerning  it  was,  '  The  key  was  never  found, 
Samuel.  You  see  I  had  to  get  a  new  one  made.'  And 
she  pointed  to  where  it  hung  on  the  wall.  '  But  that 
doesn't  look  new  now,'  she  would  say.  *  The  lock  was 
very  hard  to  fit  again.'  And  so  you  see,  sir,  I  was 
brought  up  as  her  nephew,  though  people  were  sur- 
prised, no  doubt,  that  William  Weir's  wife  should  have 
a  child,  and  nobody  know  she  was  expecting. — Well, 
with  all  the  reports  of  the  captain's  money,  none  of  it 
showed  in  this  old  place,  which  from  that  day  began,  as 
it  were,  to  crumble  away.  There's  been  little  repair 
done  upon  it  since  then.  If  it  hadn't  been  a  well-btiilt 
place  to  begin  with,  it  wouldn't  be  standing  now,  sic 


124  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

But  it 's  a  very  different  place,  I  can  tell  you.  Why,  all 
behind  was  a  garden  with  terraces,  and  fruit  trees,  and 
gay  flowers,  to  no  end.  I  remember  it  as  well  as  yes 
terday ;  nay,  a  great  deal  better,  for  the  matter  of  that 
For  I  don't  remember  yesterday  at  all,  sir." 

I  have  tried  a  little  to  tell  the  story  as  he  told  it.  But 
I  am  aware  that  I  have  succeeded  very  badly ;  for  I  am 
not  like  my  friend  in  London,  who,  I  verily  believe, 
could  give  you  an  exact  representation  of  any  dialect  he 
ever  heard.  I  wish  I  had  been  able  to  give  a  little 
more  of  the  form  of  the  old  man's  speech ;  all  I  have 
been  able  to  do  is  to  show  a  difference  from  my  own 
way  of  telling  a  story.  But  in  the  main,  I  think,  I  have 
reported  it  correctly.  I  believe  if  the  old  man  was  cor- 
rect in  representing  his  aunt's  account,  the  story  is  very 
little  altered  between  us. 

But  why  should  I  tell  such  a  story  at  all  ? 

I  am  willing  to  allow,  at  once,  that  I  have  very  likely 
given  it  more  room  than  it  deserves  in  these  poor  Annals 
of  mine;  but  the  reason  why  I  tell  it  at  all  is  simply  this, 
that,  as  it  came  from  the  old  man's  lips,  it  interested  me 
greatly.  It  certainly  did  not  produce  the  effect  I  had 
hoped  to  gain  from  an  interview  with  him,  namely,  a 
reduction  to  the  common  and  present.  For  all  this  ancient 
tale  tended  to  keep  up  the  sense  of  distance  between 
my  day's  experience  at  the  Hall  and  the  work  I  had  to 
do  amongst  my  cottagers  and  trades-people.  Indeed,  it 
came  very  strangely  upon  that  experience. 

"  But  surely  you  did  not  believe  such  an  extravagant 
(ale  %    The  old  man  was  in  his  dotage,  to  begin  with.'' 


THE    bishop's    basin.  12? 

Had  the  old  man  been  in  his  dotage,  which  he  was 
not,  my  answer  would  have  been  a  more  triumphant 
one.  For  when  was  dotage  consistently  and  imagina 
tively  inventive?  But  why  should  I  not  believe  the 
story?  There  are  people  who  can  never  believe  any- 
thing that  is  not  (I  do  not  say  merely  in  accordance  with 
their  own  character,  but)  in  accordance  with  the  parti- 
cular mood  they  may  happen  to  be  in  at  the  time  it  is 
presented  to  them.  They  know  nothing  of  human  nature 
beyond  their  own  immediate  preference  at  the  moment 
for  port  or  sherry,  for  vice  or  virtue.  To  tell  me  there 
oould  not  be  a  man  so  lost  to  shame,  if  to  rectitude,  as 
Captain  Crowfoot,  is  simply  to  talk  nonsense.  Nay, 
gentle  reader,  if  you — and  let  me  suppose  I  address  a 
lady — if  you  will  give  yourself  up  for  thirty  years  to  doing 
just  whatever  your  lowest  self  and  not  your  best  self  may 
like,  I  will  warrant  you  capable,  by  the  end  of  that  time, 
of  child  murder  at  least  I  do  not  think  the  descent  to 
Avernus  is  always  easy;  but  it  is  always  possible.  Many 
and  many  such  a  story  was  fact  in  old  times;  and  human 
nature  being  the  same  still,  though  under  different  re- 
straints, equally  horrible  things  are  constantly  in  progress 
towards  the  windows  of  the  newspapers. 

"  But  the  whole  tale  has  such  a  melodramatic  air !" 
That  argument  simply  amounts  to  this  :  that,  because 
such  subjects  are  capable  of  being  employed  with  greai 
dramatic  effect,  and  of  being  at  the  same  time  very 
badly  represen  ted,  therefore  they  cannot  take  place  in 
real  life.  But  ask  any  physician  of  your  acquaintance, 
jvhether  a  story  is  unlikely  simply  because  it  involves 


126  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

terrible  things  such  as  do  not  occur  every  day.  The 
fact  is,  that  such  things,  occurring  monthly  or  yearly 
only,  are  more  easily  hidden  away  out  of  sight.  Indeed 
we  can  have  no  sense  of  security  for  ourselves  except  in 
the  knowledge  that  we  are  striving  up  and  away,  and 
therefore  cannot  be  sinking  nearer  to  the  region  of  such 
awful  possibilities. 

Yet,  as  I  said  before,  I  am  afraid  I  have  given  it  too 
large  a  space  in  my  narrative.  Only  it  so  forcibly  re- 
minded me  at  the  time  of  the  expression  I  could  not 
understand  upon  Miss  Oldcastle's  face,  and  since  then 
has  been  so  often  recalled  by  circumstances  and  events, 
that  I  felt  impelled  to  record  it  in  full.  And  now  J 
have  done  with  it. 

I  left  the  old  man  with  thanks  for  the  kind  reception 
he  had  given  me,  and  walked  home,  revolving  many 
things  with  which  I  shall  not  detain  the  attention  of  my 
reader.  Indeed  my  thoughts  were  confused  and  troubled, 
and  would  ill  bear  analysis  or  record.  I  shut  mysell 
up  in  my  study,  and  tried  to  read  a  sermon  of  Jeremy 
Taylor.  But  it  would  not  do.  I  fell  fast  asleep  over  it 
at  lust,  and  woke  refreshed 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

WHAT   I    PREACHED. 

URING  the  suffering  which  accompanied  the 
disappointment  at  which  I  have  already 
hinted,  I  did  not  think  it  inconsistent  with 
the  manly  spirit  in  which  I  was  resolved 
to  endure  it,  to  seek  consolation  from  such  a  source 
as  the  New  Testament — if  mayhap  consolation  for  such 
a  trouble  was  to  be  found  there.  Whereupon,  a  little 
to  my  surprise,  I  discovered  that  I  could  not  read  the 
Epistles  at  all.  For  I  did  not  then  care  an  atom  for  the 
theological  discussions  in  which  I  had  been  interested 
before,  and  for  the  sake  of  which  I  had  read  those 
epistles.  Now  that  I  was  in  trouble,  what  to  me  was 
that  philosophical  theology  staring  me  in  the  face  from 
out  the  sacred  page?  Ah!  reader,  do  not  misunder- 
stand me.  All  reading  of  the  Book  is  not  reading  of 
the  Word.  And  many  that  are  first  shall  be  last  and 
the  last  first.     1  know  noiv  that  it  was  Jesus  Christ  and 


128  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

not  theology  that  filled  the  hearts  of  the  men  that  wrote 
those  epistles — ^Jesus  Christ,  the  living,  loving  God-Man, 
whom  I  found — not  in  the  Epistles,  but  in  the  Gospels. 
The  Gospels  contain  what  the  apostles  preached — the 
Epistles  what  they  wrote  after  the  preaching.  And 
until  we  understand  the  Gospel,  the  good  news  of  Jesus 
Christ  our  brother-king  —  until  we  understand  Him, 
until  we  have  His  Spirit,  promised  so  freely  to  them 
that  ask  it — all  the  Epistles,  the  words  of  men  who 
were  full  of  Him,  and  wrote  out  of  that  fulness,  who 
loved  Him  so  utterly  that  by  that  very  love  they  were 
lifted  into  the  air  of  pure  reason  and  right,  and  would 
die  for  Him,  and  did  die  for  Him,  without  two  thoughts 
about  it,  in  the  very  simplicity  of  no  choice — the  Letters, 
I  say,  of  such  men  are  to  us  a  sealed  book.  Until  we 
love  the  Lord  so  as  to  do  what  He  tells  us,  we  have  no 
right  to  have  an  opinion  about  what  one  of  those  men 
meant;  for  all  they  wrote  is  about  things  beyond  us. 
The  simplest  woman  who  tries  not  to  judge  her  neigh- 
bour, or  not  to  be  anxious  for  the  morrow,  will  better 
know  what  is  best  to  know,  than  the  best-read  bishop 
without  that  one  simple  outgoing  of  his  highest  nature 
in  the  effort  to  do  the  will  of  Him  who  thus  spoke. 

But  I  have,  as  is  too  common  with  me,  been  led 
away  by  my  feelings  from  the  path  to  the  object  before 
me.  What  I  wanted  to  s.iy  was  this :  that,  although  I 
could  make  nothing  of  the  epistles,  could  see  no  possi- 
bility of  consolation  for  my  distress  sprinj|hig  from  them, 
I  found  it  altogether  different  when  I  tried  the  Gospel 
once  more.     Indeed,  it  then  took  such  a  hold  of  me  as 


WHAT    I    PREACHED.  I2g 


it  had  never  taken  before.  Only  that  is  simply  saying 
nothing.  I  found  out  that  I  had  known  nothing  at  all 
about  it ;  that  I  had  only  a  certain  surface-knowledge, 
which  tended  rather  to  ignorance,  because  it  fostered 
the  delusion  that  I  did  know.  Know  that  man,  Christ 
Jesus !  Ah !  Lord,  I  would  go  through  fire  and  watei 
to  sit  the  last  at  Thy  table  in  Thy  kingdom ;  but  dare  I 
say  now  I  know  Thee  ! — But  Thou  '  art  the  Gospel,  for 
Thou  art  the  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life ;  and  I  have 
found  Thee  the  Gospel.  For  I  found,  as  I  read,  that 
Thy  very  presence  in  my  thoughts,  not  as  the  theolo- 
gians show  Thee,  but  as  Thou  showedst  Thyself  to  them 
who  report  Thee  to  us,  smoothed  the  troubled  waters  of 
my  spirit,  so  that,  even  while  the  storm  lasted,  I  was 
able  to  walk  upon  them  to  go  to  Thee.  And  when 
those  waters  became  clear,  I  most  rejoiced  in  theii- 
clearness  because  they  mirrored  Thy  form  —  because 
Thou  wert  there  to  my  vision  —  the  one  Ideal,  the 
perfect  man,  the  God  perfected  as  king  of  men  by 
working  out  His  Godhood  in  the  work  of  man ;  reveal- 
ing that  God  and  man  are  one ;  that  to  serve  God,  a 
man  must  be  partaker  of  the  Divine  nature ;  that  for  a 
man's  work  to  be  done  thoroughly,  God  must  come  and 
do  it  first  Himself;  that  to  help  men,  He  must  be  what 
He  is — man  in  God,  God  in  man — visibly  before  their 
eyes,  or  to  the  hearing  of  their  ears.     So  much  I  saw. 

And  therefore,  when  I  was  once  more  in  a  position 
to  help  my  felloAvs",  what  could  I  want  to  give  them  but 
that  which  was  the  very  bread  and  water  of  life  to  me— 
the  Saviour  himself?     And  how  was  I  to  do  thisi — By 


130  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

trying  to  represent  the  man  in  all  the  simplicity  of  His 
life,  of  His  sayings  and  doings,  of  His  refusals  to  say  ot 
do. — I  took  the  story  from  the  beginning,  and  told  them 
about  the  Baby;  trying  to  make  the  fathers  and  mothers, 
and  all  whose  love  for  children  supplied  the  lack  of 
fatherhood  and  motherhood,  feel  that  it  was  a  real  baby- 
boy.  And  I  followed  the  life  on  and  on,  trying  to  show 
them  how  He  felt,  as  far  as  one  might  dare  to  touch 
such  sacred  things,  when  He  did  so  and  so,  or  said  so 
and  so;  and  what  His  relation  to  His  father  and  mother 
and  brothers  and  sisters  was,  and  to  the  different  kinds 
of  people  who  came  about  Him.  And  I  tried  to  show 
them  what  His  sayings  meant,  as  far  as  I  understood 
them  myself,  and  where  I  could  not  understand  them 
I  just  told  them  so,  and  said  I  hoped  for  more  light  by 
and  by  to  enable  me  to  understand  them ;  telling  them 
that  that  hope  was  a  sharp  goad  to  my  resolution,  driv- 
ing me  on  to  do  my  duty,  because  I  knew  that  only  as 
I  did  my  duty  would  light  go  up  in  my  heart,  making 
me  wise  to  understand  the  precious  words  of  my  Lord. 
And  I  told  them  that  if  they  would  try  to  do  their  duty, 
they  would  find  more  understanding  from  that  than  from 
any  explanation  I  could  give  them. 

And  so  I  went  on  from  Sunday  to  Sunday.  And  the 
number  of  people  that  slept  grew  less  and  less,  until,  at 
last,  it  was  reduced  to  the  churchwarden,  Mr  Brownrigg, 
and  an  old  washerwoman,  who,  poor  thing,  stood  so 
much  all  the  week,  that  sitting  down  with  her  was  like 
going  to  bed,  and  she  never  could  do  it,  as  she  told  me, 
without  going  to  sleep.     I,  therefore,  called  upon  her 


WHAT    I    PREACHED. 


every  Monday  morning,  and  had  five  minutes'  chat  with 
her  as  she  stood  at  her  wash-tub,  wisliing  to  make  up  to 
her  for  her  drowsiness;  and  thinking  that  if  I  could 
once  get  her  interested  in  anything,  she  might  be  able 
to  keep  awake  a  Httle  while  at  the  beginning  of  the 
sermon ;  for  she  gave  me  no  chance  of  interesting  her 
on  Sundays — going  fast  asleep  the  moment  I  stood  up 
to  preach.  I  never  got  so  far  as  that,  however ;  and  the 
only  fact  that  showed  me  I  had  made  any  impression 
upon  her,  beyond  the  pleasure  she  always  manifested 
when  I  appeared  on  the  Monday,  was,  that,  whereas  all 
my  linen  had  been  very  badly  washed  at  first,  a  decided 
improvement  took  place  after  a  while,  beginning  with 
my  surplice  and  bands,  and  gradually  extending  itself 
to  my  shirts  and  handkerchiefs ;  till  at  last  even  Mrs 
Pearson  was  unable  to  find  any  fault  with  the  poor  old 
sleepy  woman's  work.  For  Mr  Brownrigg,  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  sense  of  any  one  sentence  I  ever  uttered, 
down  to  the  day  of  his  death,  entered  into  his  brain — I 
dare  not  say  his  mind  or  heart.  With  regard  to  him, 
and  millions  besides,  I  am  more  than  happy  to  obey  my 
Lord's  command,  and  not  judge. 

But  it  was  not  long  either  before  my  congregations 
began  to  improve,  whatever  might  be  the  cause.  I  could 
not  help  hoping  that  it  was  really  because  they  liked  to 
hear  the  Gospel,  that  is,  the  good  news  about  Christ 
himself.  And  I  always  made  use  of  the  knowledge  I 
had  of  my  individual  hearers,  to  say  what  I  thought 
would  do  them  good.  Not  that  I  ever  preached  at  any- 
body; I  or.ly  sought  to  explain  the  principles  o/  tilings 


13*  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

in  which  I  knew  action  of  some  sort  was  demanded 
from  them.  For  I  remembered  how  our  Lord's  sermon 
against  covetousness,  with  the  parable  of  the  rich  man 
with  the  little  barn,  had  for  its  occasion  the  request  of  a 
man  that  our  Lord  would  interfere  to  make  his  brother 
share  with  him;  which  He  declining  to  do,  yet  gave 
both  brothers  a  lesson  such  as,  if  they  wished  to  do 
what  was  right,  would  help  them  to  see  clearly  what  was 
the  right  thing  to  do  in  this  and  every  such  matter. 
Clear  the  mind's  eye,  by  washing  away  the  covetous- 
ness, and  the  whole  nature  would  be  full  of  light,  and 
the  right  walk  would  speedily  follow. 

Before  long,  likewise,  I  was  as  sure  of  seeing  the  pale 
face  of  Thomas  Weir  perched,  like  that  of  a  man  be- 
headed for  treason,  upon  the  apex  of  the  gablet  of  the 
old  tomb,  as  I  was  of  hearing  the  wonderful  playing  of 
that  husky  old  organ,  of  which  I  have  spoken  once  be- 
fore. I  continued  to  pay  him  a  visit  every  now  and 
then ;  and  I  assure  you,  never  was  the  attempt  to  be 
thoroughly  honest  towards  a  man  better  understood *or 
more  appreciated  than  my  attempt  was  by  the  atheistical 
•carpenter.  The  man  was  no  more  an  atheist  than 
David  was  when  he  saw  the  wicked  spreading  like  a 
gi-een  bay-tree,  and  was  troubled  at  the  sight.  He  only 
wanted  to  see  a  God  in  whom  he  could  trust  And  if  I 
succeeded  at  all  in  making  him  hope  that  there  might  be 
such  a  God,  it  is  to  me  one  of  the  most  precious  seals 
of  my  ministry. 

But  it  was  now  getting  very  near  Christmas,  and  there 
was  one  person  whom  I  had  never  yet  seen  at  church : 


WHAT    I    PREACHED.  I33 

chat  was  Catherine  Weir.  I  thought,  at  first,  it  could 
hardly  be  that  she  shrunk  from  being  seen ;  for  how 
then  could  she  have  taken  to  keeping  a  shop,  where  she 
must  be  at  the  beck  of  every  onel  I  had  several  times 
gone  and  bought  tobacco  of  her  since  that  first  occa- 
sion ;  and  I  had  told  my  housekeeper  to  buy  whatever 
she  could  from  her,  instead  of  going  to  the  larger  shop 
in  the  place ;  at  which  Mrs  Pearson  had  grumbled  a 
good  deal,  saying  how  could  the  things  be  so  good  out 
of  a  poky  shop  like  that  1  But  I  told  her  I  did  not  care 
if  the  things  were  not  quite  as  good ;  for  it  would  be  of 
more  consequence  to  Catherine  to  have  the  custom,  than 
it  would  be  to  me  to  have  the  one  lump  of  sugar  I  put 
in  my  tea  of  a  morning  one  shade  or  even  two  shades 
whiter.  So  I  had  contrived  to  keep  up  a  kind  of  con- 
nexion with  her,  althougli  I  saw  that  any  attempt  at 
conversation  was  so  distasteful  to  her,  that  it  must  do 
harm  until  something  should  have  brought  about  a 
change  in  her  feelings;  though  what  feeling  wanted 
changing,  I  could  not  at  first  tell.  I  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  had  been  wronged  grievously,  and  that 
this  wrong  operating  on  a  nature  similar  to  her  father's, 
had  drawn  all  her  mind  to  brood  over  it.  The  world 
itself,  the  whole  order  of  her  life,  everything  about  her, 
would  seem  then  to  have  wronged  her ;  and  to  speak  to 
her  of  religion  would  only  rouse  ner  scorn,  and  make 
her  feel  as  if  God  himself,  if  there  were  a  God,  had 
wronged  her  too.  Evidently,  likewise,  she  had  that 
peculiarity  of  strong,  undeveloped  natures,  of  being  un- 
able, once  possessed  by  one  set  of  thoughts,  to  get  r'd 


J34  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET     NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

of  it  again,  or  to  see  anytliing  except  in  the  shadow  of 
those  thoughts.  I  had  no  doubt,  however,  at  last,  that 
she  was  ashamed  of  her  position  in  the  eyes  of  society, 
although  a  hitherto  indomitable  pride  had  upheld  her  to 
face  it  so  far  as  was  necessary  to  secure  her  independ- 
ence ;  both  of  which — pride  and  shame — prevented  her 
from  appearing  where  it  was  unnecessary,  and  especially 
in  church.  I  could  do  nothing  more  than  wait  for  a 
favourable  opportunity.  I  could  invent  no  way  of  reach- 
ing her  yet ;  for  I  had  soon  found  that  kindness  to  her 
boy  was  regarded  rather  in  the  light  of  an  insult  to  her. 
I  should  have  been  greatly  puzzled  to  account  for  his 
being  such  a  sweet  little  fellow,  had  I  not  known  that 
he  was  a  great  deal  with  his  aunt  and  grandfather.  A 
more  attentive  and  devout  worshipper  was  not  in  the 
congregation  than  that  little  boy. 

Before  going  on  to  speak  of  another  of  the  most  re- 
markable of  my  parishioners,  whom  I  have  just  once 
mentioned  I  believe  already,  I  should  like  to  say  that 
on  three  several  occasions  before  Christmas  I  had  seen 
Judy  look  grave.  She  was  always  quite  well-behaved  in 
church,  though  restless,  as  one  might  expect.  But  on 
these  occasions  she  was  not  only  attentive,  but  grave,  as 
if  she  felt  something  or  other.  I  will  not  mention  what 
subjects  I  was  upon  at  those  times,  because  the  mention 
of  them  would  not,  in  the  minds  of  my  readers,  at  all 
h  irmonise  with  the  only  notion  of  Judy  they  can  yet  by 
possibility  have. 

For  Mrs  Oldcastle,  I  never  saw  her  change  countenance 
or  even  expression  at  anything — I  mean  in  church. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  ORGANIST. 

N  the  afternoon  of  my  second  Sunday  at 
Marslimallows,  I  was  standing  in  the  church- 
yard, casting  a  long  shadow  in  the  hght  Oi 
the  dechning  sun.  I  was  reading  the  in- 
scription upon  an  old  headstone,  for  I  thought  every- 
body was  gone ;  when  I  heard  a  door  open,  and  shut 
again  before  I  could  turn.  I  saw  at  once  that  it  must 
have  been  a  little  door  in  the  tower,  almost  concealed 
from  where  I  stood  by  a  deep  buttress.  I  had  never 
seen  the  door  open,  and  I  had  never  inquired  anything 
about  it,  supposing  it  led  merely  into  the  tower. 

After  a  moment  it  opened  again,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
out  came,  stooping  his  tall  form  to  get  his  gray  head 
clear  of  tlie  low  archway,  a  man  whom  no  one  could 
pass  without  looking  after  him.  Tall,  and  strongly  built, 
he  had  the  carriage  of  a  military  man,  without  an  atom 
of  that  sternness  which  one  generally  finds  in  the  facei 


136  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

of  those  accustomed  to  command.  He  had  a  large  face, 
with  large  regular  features,  and  large  clear  gray  eyes,  all 
of  which  united  to  express  an  exceeding  placidity  or  re- 
pose. It  shone  with  intelligence — a  mild  intelligence — 
no  way  suggestive  of  profundity,  although  of  geniality. 
Indeed,  there  was  a  little  too  much  expression.  The 
face  seemed  to  express  all  that  lay  beneath  it. 

I  was  not  satisfied  with  the  countenance;  and  yet  it 
looked  quite  good.  It  was  somehow  a  too  well-ordered 
face.  It  was  quite  Greek  in  its  outline  ;  and  marvellously 
well  kept  and  smooth,  considering  that  the  beard,  to 
which  razors  were  utterly  strange,  and  which  descended 
half-way  down  his  breast,  would  have  been  as  white  a.s 
snow  except  for  a  slight  yellowish  tinge.  His  eyebrows 
were  still  very  dark,  only  just  touched  with  the  frost  of 
winter.  His  hair,  too,  as  I  saw  when  he  lifted  his  hat, 
was  still  wonderfully  dark  for  the  condition  of  his  beard. 
— It  flashed  into  my  mind,  that  this  must  be  the  organist 
who  played  so  remarkably.  Somehow  I  had  not  hap- 
pened yet  to  inquire  about  him.  But  there  was  a  s'tate- 
liness  in  this  man  amounting  almost  to  consciousness 
of  dignity ;  and  I  was  a  little  bewildered.  His  clothes 
were  all  of  black,  very  neat  and  clean,  but  old-fashioned 
and  threadbare.  They  bore  signs  of  use,  but  more  signs 
of  time  and  careful  keeping.  I  would  have  spoken  to 
him,  but  something  in  the  manner  in  which  he  bowed 
to  me  as  he  passed,  prevented  me,  and  I  let  him  go  un- 
accosted. 

The  sexton  coming  out  directly  after,  and  proceeding 
to  lock  the  door,  I  was  struck  by  the  action.     "  What  is 


THE    ORGANIST.  l^J 


he  locking  the  door  for  1"  1  said  lo  myself.  But  I  said 
nothing  to  him,  because  I  had  not  answered  the  question 
myself  yet. 

*■  Who  is  that  gentleman,"  I  asked,  "who  came  out 
just  now?" 

"  That  is  Mr  Stoddart,  sir,"  he  answered. 

I  thought  I  had  heard  the  name  in  the  neighbourhood 
before. 

"  Is  it  he  who  plays  the  organ  ? "  I  asked. 

"  That  he  do,  sir.  He  's  played  our  organ  for  the  last 
ten  year,  ever  since  he  come  to  live  at  the  Hall." 

"What  Hall?" 

"Why  the  Hall,  to  be  sure, — Oldcastle  Hall,  you 
know." 

And  then  it  dawned  on  my  recollection  that  I  had 
heard  Judy  mention  her  uncle  Stoddart.  But  how  could 
he  be  her  uncle  1 

"  Is  he  a  relation  of  the  family  ? "  I  asked. 

"  He 's  a  brother-m-iaw,  I  believe,  of  the  old  lady,  sir, 
but  how  ever  he  come  to  live  there  I  don't  know.  It 's 
no  such  binding  connexion,  you  know,  sir.  He 's  been 
in  the  milintairy  line,  I  believe,  sir,  in  the  Ingres,  or 
somewheres." 

I  do  not  think  I  shall  have  any  more  strange  parish- 
ioners to  present  to  my  readers ;  at  least  I  do  not  re- 
member any  more  just  at  this  moment.  And  this  one, 
as  the  reader  will  see,  I  positively  could  not  keep 
out. 

A  military  man  from  India  !  a  brother-in-law  of  Mrs 
Oldcastle,  choosing  to  live  with  her  !  an  entrancing  per- 


I3B  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

former  upon  an  old,  asthmatic,  dry-throated  church 
organ  !  taking  no  trouble  to  make  the  clergyman's  ac- 
quaintance, and  passing  him  in  the  churchyard  with  a 
courteous  bow,  although  his  face  was  full  of  kindliness, 
il  not  of  kin3ness  !  I  could  not  help  thinking  all  this 
strange.  And  yet — will  the  reader  cease  to  accord  me 
credit  when  I  assert  it  ? — although  I  had  quite  intended 
to  inquire  after  him  when  I  left  the  vicarage  to  go  to 
the  Hall,  and  had  even  thought  of  him  when  sitting  with 
Mrs  Oldcastle,  I  never  thought  of  him  again  after  going 
with  Judy,  and  left  the  house  without  having  made  a 
single  inquiry  after  him.  Nor  did  I  think  of  him  again 
till  just  as  I  was  passing  under  the  outstretched  neck  of 
one  of  those  serpivolants  on  the  gate ;  and  what  made 
me  think  of  him  then,  I  cannot  in  the  least  imagine ;  but 
I  resolved  at  once  that  I  would  call  upon  him  the  fol- 
lowing week,  lest  he  should  think  that  the  fact  of  his 
having  omitted  to  call  upon  me  had  been  the  occasion 
of  such  an  apparently  pointed  omission  on  my  part. 
For  I  had  long  ago  determined  to  be  no  further  guided 
by  the  rules  of  society  than  as  they  might  aid  in  bring- 
ing about  true  neighbourliness,  and  if  possible  friendli- 
ness and  friendship.  Wherever  they  might  interfere 
with  these,  I  would  disregard  them — as  far  on  the  other 
hand  as  the  disregard  of  them  might  tend  to  bring  about 
the  results  I  desired. 

When,  carrying  out  this  resolution,  I  rang  the  door- 
bell at  the  Hall,  and  inquired  whether  Mr  Stoddart  was 
at  home,  the  butler  stared ;  and,  as  I  simply  continued 
gazing  in  return,  and  waiting,  he  answered  at  length, 


THE    ORGANIST.  I3Q 


with  some  hesitation,  as  if  he  were  picking  and  choosing 
his  words : 

"  Mr  Stoddart  never  calls  upon  any  one,  sir.*" 

*'  I  am  not  complaining  of  Mr  Stoddart,"  I  answered, 
wishing  to  put  the  man  at  his  ease. 

"  But  nobody  calls  upon  Mr  Stoddart,"  he  returned. 

"  That 's  very  unkind  of  somebody,  surely,"  I  said. 

"  But  he  doesn't  want  anybody  to  call  upon  him,  sir." 

"  Ah !  that 's  another  matter.  I  didn't  know  that. 
Of  course,  nobody  has  a  right  to  intrude  upon  anybody. 
However,  as  I  happen  to  have  come  without  knowing 
his  dislike  to  being  visited,  perhaps  you  will  take  him 
my  card,  and  say  that  if  it  is  not  disagreeable  to  him,  I 
should  like  exceedingly  to  thank  him  in  person  for  his 
sermon  on  the  organ  last  Sunday." 

He  had  played  an  exquisite  voluntary  in  the  morning. 

"  Give  my  message  exactly,  if  you  please,"  I  said,  as  I 
followed  the  man  into  the  hall. 

"  I  will  try,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  But  won't  you  come 
up-stairs  to  mistress's  room,  sir,  while  I  take  this  to  Mr 
Stoddart?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  I  answered.  "I  came  to  call 
upon  Mr  Stoddart  only,  and  I  will  wait  the  result  of 
you  mission  here  in  the  hall." 

The  man  withdrew,  and  I  sat  down  on  a  bench,  and 
amused  myself  with  looking  at  the  portraits  about  me. 
1  lca!-ned  afterwards  that  they  had  hung,  till  some  thirtv 
years  before,  in  a  long  gallery  connecting  the  main  part 
of  the  house  with  that  portion  to  which  the  turret  referred 
to  so  often  in  Old  Weir's  story  was  attached.     One  par- 


140  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

ticularly  pleased  me.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  young 
woman — very  lovely — but  with  an  expression  both  sad 
and — scared,  I  think,  would  be  the  readiest  word  to 
communicate  what  I  mean.  It  was  indubitably,  indeed 
remarkably,  like  Miss  Oldcastle.  And  I  learned  after- 
wards that  it  was  the  portrait  of  Mrs  Oldcastle's  grand- 
mother, that  very  Mrs  Crowfoot  mentioned  in  Weir's 
story.  It  had  been  taken  about  six  months  after  her 
marriage,  and  about  as  many  before  her  death. 

The  butler  returned,  with  the  request  that  I  would 
follow  him.  He  led  me  up  the  grand  staircase,  through 
a  passage  at  right  angles  to  that  which  led  to  the  old 
lady's  room,  up  a  narrow  circular  staircase  at  the  end  ol 
the  passage,  across  a  landing,  then  up  a  straight  steep 
narrow  stair,  upon  which  two  people  could  not  pass 
without  turning  sideways  and  then  squeezing.  At  the 
top  of  this  I  found  myself  in  a  small  cylindrical  lobby, 
papered  in  blocks  of  stone.  There  was  no  door  to  be 
seen.  It  was  lighted  by  a  conical  skylight.  My  con- 
ductor gave  a  push  against  the  wall.  Certain  blocks 
yielded,  and  others  came  forward.  In  fact  a  door  re- 
volved on  central  pivots,  and  we  were  admitted  to  a 
chamber  crowded  with  books  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
arranged  with  wonderful  neatness  and  solidity.  |^rom 
the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  whence  hung  a  globular  lamp, 
radiated  what  I  took  to  be  a  number  of  strong  beams 
supporting  a  floor  above;  for  our  ancestors  put  the  ceil- 
ing above  the  beams,  instead  of  below  them,  as  we  do, 
and  gained  in  space  if  they  lost  in  quietness.  But  I 
soon  found  out  my  mistake.     Those  radiating  beams 


THE    ORGANIST.  I4I 

were  in  reality  book-shelves.  For  on  each  side  of  those 
I  passed  under  I  could  see  the  gilded  backs  o;'  books 
standing  closely  ranged  together.  I  had  never  seen  the 
conaivance  before,  nor,  I  presume,  was  it  to  be  seen 
anywhere  else. 

"How  does  Mr  Stoddart  reach  those  books'?"  I  asked 
my  conductor.  '>» 

"  I  don't  exactly  know,  sir,"  whispered  the  butler. 
"  His  own  man  could  tell  you,  I  dare  say.  But  he  has 
a  holiday  to-day;  and  I  do  not  think  he  would  explain 
it  either;  for  he  says  his  master  allows  no  interference 
with  his  contrivances.  I  believe,  however,  he  does  not 
use  a  ladder." 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room,  and  I  saw  no  entrance 
but  that  by  which  we  had  entered.  The  next  moment, 
however,  a  nest  of  shelves  revolved  in  front  of  me,  and 
there  Mr  Stoddart  stood  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  You  have  found  me  at  last,  Mr  Walton,  and  I  am 
glad  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

He  led  me  into  an  inner  room,  much  larger  than  the 
one  I  had  passed  through. 

"  I  am  glad,"  I  replied,  "  that  I  did  not  know,  till  the 
butler  told  me,  your  unwiUingness  to  be  intruded  upon ; 
for  I  fear,  had  I  known  it,  I  should  have  been  yet  longer 
a  stranger  to  you." 

••  Vou  are  no  stranger  to  me.  I  have  heard  you  read 
prayers,  and  I  have  heard  you  preach." 

"  And  I  have  heard  you  play;  so  you  are  no  stranger 
to  me  either." 

"  Well,  before  we  say  another  word,"  said  Mr  Stoddaxt^ 


142  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  I  must  just  say  one  word  about  this  report  of  my  un 
sociable  disposition. — I  encourage  it;  but  am  very  glad 
to  see  you,  notwithstanding, — Do  sit  down." 

I  obeyed,  and  waited  for  the  rest  of  his  word. 

"  I  was  so  bored  with  visits  after  I  _ame,  visits  which 
were  to  me  utterly  uninteresting,  that  I  was  only  too 
glad  when  the  unusual  nature  of  some  of  my  pursuits 
gave  rise  to  the  rumour  that  I  was  mad.  The  more 
people  say  I  am  mad,  the  better  pleased  I  am,  so  long 
as  they  are  satisfied  with  my  own  mode  of  shutting  my- 
self up,  and  do  not  attempt  to  carry  out  any  fancies  of 
their  own  in  regard  to  my  personal  freedom." 

Upon  this  followed  some  desultory  conversation,  dur- 
mg  which  I  took  some  observations  of  the  room.  Like 
the  outer  room,  it  was  full  of  books  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
But  the  ceiling  was  divided  into  compartments,  harmoni- 
ously coloured. 

"  What  a  number  of  books  you  have ! "  I  observed. 

"  Not  a  great  many,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  think 
there  is  hardly  one  of  them  with  which  I  have  not  some 
kind  of  personal  acquaintance.  I  think  I  could  almost 
find  you  any  one  you  wanted  in  the  dark,  or  in  the 
twilight  at  least,  which  would  allow  me  to  distinguish 
whether  the  top  edge  was  gilt,  red,  marbled,  or  uncut. 
I  have  bound  a  couple  of  hundred  or  so  of  them  myself. 
I  don't  think  you  could  tell  the  work  from  a  tradesman's. 
I  '11  give  you  a  guinea  for  the  poor-box  if  you  pick  out 
tliree  of  my  binding  consecutively." 

I  accepted  the  challenge;  for  although  I  could  not 
bind  a  book,  I  considered  myself  to  have  a  keen  eye  foi 


THE    ORGANIST.  I43 


the  outside  finish.  Afi:er  looking  over  the  backs  of  a 
great  many,  I  took  one  down,  examined  a  little  further, 
and  presented  it 

"  You  are  right.     Now  try  again." 

Again  T  was  successful,  although  I  doubted. 

"  And  now  for  the  last,"  he  said.    " 

Once  more  I  was  right. 

"  There  is  your  guinea,"  said  he,  a  little  mortified. 

"  No,"  I  answered.  •'  I  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to  take 
it,  because,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  last  was  a  mere  guess, 
nothing  more." 

Mr  Stoddart  looked  relieved. 

"  You  are  more  honest  than  most  of  your  profession," 
he  said.  "  But  I  am  far  more  pleased  to  offer  you  the 
guinea  upon  the  smallest  doubt  of  your  having  won  it" 

"  I  have  no  claim  upon  it." 

"  What !  Couldn't  you  swallow  a  small  scruple  like 
that  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  even?  Well,  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  could. — Oblige  me  by  taking  this  guinea  for 
some  one  or  other  of  your  poor  people.  But  I  am  glad 
you  weren't  sure  of  that  last  book.     I  am  indeed." 

I  took  the  guinea,  and  put  it  in  my  purse. 

"  But,"  he  resumed,  "  you  won't  do,  Mr  Walton. 
You  're  not  fit  for  your  profession.  You  won't  tell  a  lie 
for  God's  sake.  You  won't  dodge  about  a  little  to  keep 
all  right  between  Jove  and  his  weary  parishioners.  You 
won't  cheat  a  little  for  the  sake  of  the  poor !  You 
tvouldn't  even  bamboozle  a  little  at  a  bazaar!" 

"  I  should  not  like  to  boast  of  my  principles,"  I  an- 
swered ;  "  for  the  moment  one  does  so,  they  become  as 


l44  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

the  apples  of  Sodom.  But  assuredly  I  would  not  favour 
a  fiction  to  keep  a  world  out  of  hell.  The  hell  that  a 
lie  would  keep  any  man  out  of  is  doubtless  the  very  best 
place  for  him  to  go  to.  It  is  truth,  yes,  The  Truth  that 
saves  the  world." 

"  You  are  right,  I  daresay.  You  are  more  sure  about 
it  than  I  am  though." 

"  Let  us  agree  where  we  can,"  I  said,  "  first  of  all  \ 
and  that  will  make  us  able  to  disagree,  where  we  must, 
without  quarrelling." 

"  Good,"'  he  said — "  Would  you  like  to  see  my  work 
shop?" 

"  Very  much,  indeed,"  I  answered,  heartily. 

"  Do  you  take  any  pleasure  in  applied  mechanics  % " 

"  I  used  to  do  so  as  a  boy.  But  of  course  I  have 
little  time  now  for  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  Ah  !  of  course." 

He  pushed  a  compartment  of  books.  It  yielded,  and 
we  entered  a  small  closet.  In  another  moment  I  found 
myself  leaving  the  floor,  and  in  yet  a  moment  we  were 
on  the  floor  of  an  upper  room. 

"  What  a  nice  way  of  getting  up-stairs ! "  I  said. 

"  There  is  no  other  way  of  getting  to  this  room,"  an- 
swered Mr  Stoddart.  *'  I  built  it  myself;  and  there  was 
no  room  for  stairs.  This  is  my  shop.  In  my  library  I 
only  read  my  favourite  books.  Here  I  read  anything  I 
want  to  read ;  write  anything  I  want  to  write ;  bind  my 
books ;  invent  machines ;  and  amuse  myself  generally. 
Take  a  chair." 

I  obeyed,  and  began  to  look  about  me. 


THE    ORGANIST.  I45 


The  room  had  many  books  in  detached  book-cases. 
There  were  various  benches  against  the  walls  between. 
— one  a  bookbinder's ;  another  a  carpenter's ;  a  third 
had  a  turning-lathe ;  a  fourth  had  an  iron  vice  fixed  on 
it,  and  was  evidently  used  for  working  in  metal.  Be- 
sides these,  for  it  was  a  large  room,  there  were  several- 
tables  with  chemical  apparatus  upon  them,  Florence- 
flasks,  retorts,  sand-baths,  and  such  like;  while  in  a 
corner  stood  a  furnace. 

"  What  an  accumulation  ot  ways  and  means  you  have 
about  you ! "  I  said ;  "  and  all,  apparently,  to  different 
ends." 

"  All  to  the  same  end,  if  my  object  were  understood." 

"  I  presume  I  must  ask  no  questions  as  to  that  object  1" 

"  It  would  take  time  to  explain.  I  have  theories  of 
education.  I  think  a  man  has  to  educate  himself  into 
harmony.  Therefore  he  must  open  every  possible  v/in- 
dow  by  which  the  influences  of  the  All  may  come  in 
ypon  him.  I  do  not  think  any  man  complete  without 
a  perfect  development  of  his  mechanical  faculties,  for 
instance,  and  I  encourage  them  to  develop  themselves 
into  such  windows." 

**I  do  not  object  to  your  theory,  provided  you  do  not 
put  it  forward  as  a  perfect  scheme  of  human  life.  If 
you  did,  I  should  have  some  questions  to  ask  you  about 
it,  lest  I  should  misunderstand  you." 

He  smiled  what  I  took  for  a  self-satisfied  smile. 
There  was  nothing  offensive  in  it,  but  it  left  me  with- 
out anything  to  reply  to.  No  embarrassment  followed, 
l;o\yever,  for  a  rustling  motion  in  the  room  the  same 


146  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

instant  attracted  my  attention,  and  I  saw,  to  my  sur- 
prise, and  I  must  confess,  a  little  to  my  confusion,  Miss 
Oldcastle.  She  was  seated  in  a  corner,  reading  from  a 
quarto  lying  upon  her  knees. 

"  Oh  !  you  didn't  know  my  niece  was  here  ]  To  tell 
the  truth,  I  forgot  her  when  I  brought  you  up,  else  I 
would  have  introduced  you." 

"  That  is  not  necessary,  uncle,"  said  Miss  Oldcastle, 
closing  her  book. 

I  was  by  her  instantly.  She  slipped  the  quarto  from 
her  knee,  and  took  my  offered  hand. 

"Are  you  fond  of  old  books?"  I  said,  not  having  any- 
thing better  to  say, 

•*  Some  old  books,"  she  answered. 

"  May  I  ask  what  book  you  were  reading  1 " 
-  "  I  will  answer  you—  under  protest,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  withdraw  the  question  at  once,"  I  returned. 

"  I  will  answer  it  notwithstanding.  It  is  a  volume  of 
Jacob  Behmen," 

"  Do  you  understand  him  1 " 

"Yes,     Don't  you?" 

"  Well,  I  have  made  but  little  attempt,"  I  answered, 
**  Indeed,  it  was  only  as  I  passed  through  London  last 
that  I  bought  his  works ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  find  that 
one  of  the  plates  is  missing  from  my  copy," 

"  Which  plate  is  it?  It  is  not  very  easy,  I  understand, 
to  procure  a  perfect  copy.  One  of  my  uncle's  copies 
has  no  two  volumes  bound  alik^.  Each  must  have  be- 
longed to  a  different  set,'' 


THE    ORGANIST.  I47 


"  I  can't  tell  you  what  the  plate  is.  But  there  are 
only  three  of  those  very  curious  unfolding  ones  in  my 
third  volume,  and  there  should  be  four," 

''  I  do  not  think  so.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  you  are 
wrong." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it — though  to  be  glad  that  the 
world  does  not  possess  what  I  thought  I  only  was  de- 
prived of,  is  selfishness,  cover  it  over  as  one  may  with 
the  fiction  of  a  perfect  copy." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  returned,  without  any  response 
to  what  I  said.  "  I  should  always  like  things  perfect 
myself." 

"Doubtless,"  I  answered;  and  thought  it  better  to 
try  another  direction. 

"  How  is  Mrs  Oldcastle  1"  I  asked,  feeling  in  its  turn 
the  reproach  of  hypocrisy;  for  though  I  could  have 
suffered,  I  hope,  in  my  person  and  goods  and  reputa- 
tion, to  make  that  woman  other  than  she  was,  I  could 
not  say  that  I  cared  one  atom  whether  she  was  in 
health  or  noL  Possibly  I  should  have  preferred  the 
latter  member  of  the  alternative;  for  the  suffering  of 
the  lower  nature  is  as  a  fire  that  drives  the  higher 
nature  upwards.  So  I  felt  rather  hypocritical  when  I 
asked  Miss  Oldcastle  after  her, 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of 
indifference,  which  implied  either  that  she  saw  through 
me,  or  shared  in  my  indifference.  I  could  not  tcU 
which, 

"  And  how  is  Miss  Judy  1"  I  inquired. 

*'  A  little  savage,  as  usual." 


148  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Not  the  worse  for  her  wetting,  I  hope." 

"  Oh  !  dear  no.  There  never  was  health  to  equal  that 
child's.     It  belongs  to  her  savage  nature." 

"  1  wish  some  of  us  were  more  of  savages,  then,"  I 
•  returned ;  for  I  saw  signs  of  exhaustion  in  her  eyes  which 
moved  my  sympathy. 

"  You  don't  mean  me,  Mr  Walton,  I  hope.  For  if  you 
do,  I  assure  you  your  interest  is  quite  thrown  away. 
Uncle  will  tell  you  I  am  as  strong  as  an  elephant." 

But  here  came  a  slight  elevation  of  her  person ;  and  a 
'shadow  at  the  same  moment  passed  over  her  face.  I 
saw  that  she  felt  she  ought  not  to  have  allowed  herself 
to  become  the  subject  of  conversation. 

Meantime  her  uncle  was  busy  at  one  of  his  benches 
filing  away  at  a  piece  of  brass  fixed  in  the  vice.  He 
had  thick  gloves  on.  And,  indeed,  it  had  puzzled  me 
before  to  think  how  he  could  have  so  many  kinds  of 
work,  and  yet  keep  his  hands  so  smooth  and  white  as 
they  were.  I  could  not  help  thinking  the  results  could 
hardly  be  of  the  most  useful  description  if  they  were 
all  accomplished  without  some  loss  of  whiteness  and 
smoothness  in  the  process.  Even  the  feet  that  keep 
the  garments  clean  must  be  washed  themselves  in  the 
end. 

When  I  glanced  away  from  Miss  Oldcastle  in  the 
embarrassment  produced  by  the  repulsion  of  her  last 
manner,  I  saw  Judy  in  the  room.  At  the  same  moment 
Miss  Oldcastle  rose. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Judy?"  she  said. 

"  Grannie  wants  you,"  said  Judy. 


THE    ORGANIST.  I49 


Miss  Oldcastle  left  the  room,  and  Judy  turned  to  me. 

•*  How  do  you  do,  Mr  Walton?"  she  said. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,  Judy,"  I  answered.  "  Your 
uncle  admits  you  to  his  workshop,  then?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  He  would  feel  rather  dull,  sometimes, 
without  me.     Wouldn't  you,  Uncle  Stoddart  V 

"  Just  as  the  horses  in  the  field  would  feel  dull  with- 
out the  gad-fly,  Judy,"  said  Mr  Stoddart,  laughing. 

Judy,  however,  did  not  choose  to  receive  the  laugh  as 
a  scholium  explanatory  of  the  remark,  and  was  gone  in 
a  moment,  leaving  Mr  Stoddart  and  myself  alone.  I 
must  say  he  looked  a  little  troubled  at  the  precipitate 
retreat  of  the  damsel ;  but  he  recovered  himself  with  a 
smile,  and  said  to  me, 

"  I  wonder  what  speech  I  shall  make  next  to  drive 
you  away,  Mr  Walton." 

"  I  am  not  so  easily  got  rid  of,  Mr  Stoddart,"  I 
answered.  "  And  as  for  taking  offence,  I  don't  like  it, 
and  therefore  I  never  take  it.  But  tell  me  what  you  are 
doing  now." 

"  I  have  been  working  for  some  time  at  an  attempt 
after  a  perpetual  motion,  but,  I  must  confess,  more  from 
a  metaphysical  or  logical  point  of  view  than  a  mechanical 
one." 

Here  he  took  a  drawing  from  a  shelf,  explanatory  of 
his  plan. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  here  is  a  top  made  of  platinum, 
the  heaviest  of  metals,  except  iridium — which  it  would 
be  impossible  to  procure  enough  of,  and  which  would  be 
difficult  to  work  into  the  proper  shape.    It  is  surrounded, 


JKQ  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIOHBOURHOOD. 

you  will  observe,  by  an  airtight  receiver,  communicat- 
ing by  this  tube  with  a  powerful  air-pump.  The  plate 
upon  which  the  point  of  the  top  rests  and  revolves  is  a 
diamond  :  and  I  ought  to  have  mentioned  that  the  peg 
of  the  top  is  a  diamond  likewise.  This  is,  of  course 
for  the  sake  of  reducing  the  friction.  By  this  apparatus 
communicating  with  the  top,  through  the  receiver,  I  set 
the  top  in  motion — after  exhausting  the  air  as  far  as 
possible.  Still  there  is  the  difficulty  of  the  friction  of 
tne  diamond  point  upon  the  diamond  plate,  which  mus* 
ultimately  occasion  repose.  To  obviate  this,  I  have 
constructed  here,  underneath,  a  small  steam-engine 
which  shall  cause  the  diamond  plate  to  revolve  at  pre- 
cisely the  same  rate  of  speed  as  the  top  itself.  This,  of 
course,  will  prevent  all  friction." 

**  Not  that  with  the  unavoidable  remnant  of  air,  how- 
ever," I  ventured  to  suggest. 

"  That  is  just  my  weak  point,"  he  answered.  "  But 
that  will  be  so  very  small !" 

"  Yes ;  but  enough  to  deprive  the  top  of  perpetual 
motion." 

"  But  suppose  I  could  get  over  that  difficulty,  would 
the  contrivance  have  a  right  to  the  name  of  a  perpetual 
motion  1  For  you  observe  that  the  steam-engine  below 
would  not  be  the  cause  of  the  motion.  That  comes 
from  above,  here,  and  is  withdrawn,  finally  withdrawn." 

"  I  understand  pertectly,"  I  answered.  "  At  least,  I 
think  I  do.  But  I  return  the  question  to  you :  Is  a 
motion  which,  although  not  caused,  is  enabled  by  an- 
other motion,  worthy  of  the  name  of  a  perpetual  motion  ; 


THE    ORGANIST.  I5I 


seeing  the  perpetuity  of  motion  has  not  to  do  merely 
with  time,  but  with  the  indwelling  of  self-generative 
power — renewing  itself  constantly  with  the  process  or 
exhaustion?" 

He  threw  down  his  file  on  the  bench. 

"  I  fear  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  But  you  will  allow 
it  would  have  made  a  very  pretty  machine." 

"  Pretty,  I  will  allow,"  I  answered,  "  as  distinguished 
from  beautiful.  For  I  can  never  dissociate  beauty  from 
use." 

"  You  say  that !  with  all  the  poetic  things  you  say  in 
your  sermons  !  For  I  am  a  sharp  listener,  and  none  the 
less  such  that  you  do  not  see  me.  I  have  a  loophole 
for  seeing  you.  And  I  flatter  myself,  therefore,  I  am 
the  only  person  in  the  congregation  on  a  level  with  you 
in  respect  of  balancing  advantages.  I  cannot  contradict 
you,  and  you  cannot  address  me." 

"  Do  you  mean,  then,  that  whatever  is  poetical  is  use- 
less ?"  I  asked. 

"  Do  you  assert  that  whatever  is  useful  is  beautiful?" 
he  retorted. 

"  A  full  reply  to  your  question  would  need  a  ream  ot 
paper  and  a  quarter  of  quills,"  I  answered ;  "  but  I  think 
I  may  venture  so  far  as  to  say  that  whatever  subserves  a 
noble  end  must  in  itself  be  beautiful." 

"Then  a  gallows  must  be  beautiful  because  it  sub- 
serves the  noble  end  of  ridding  the  world  of  male- 
factors 1"  he  returned,  promptly. 

I  had  to  think  for  a  moment  before  I  could  reply. 

"  1  do  not  see  anything  noble  in  the  end,"  I  answered 


»52  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  If  the  machine  got  rid  of  malefaction,  it  would,  indeed, 
have  a  noble  end.  But  if  it  only  compels  it  to  move  on, 
as  a  constable  does — from  this  world  into  another — I  do 
not,  I  say,  see  anything  so  noble  in  that  end.  The 
gallows  cannot  be  beautiful." 

"Ah,  I  see.  You  don't  approve  of  capital  punish- 
ments." 

"  I  do  not  say  that  An  inevitable  necessity  is  some- 
thing very  different  from  a  noble  end.  To  cure  the  d'"  j- 
eased  mind  is  the  noblest  of  ends ;  to  make  the  sinner 
forsake  his  ways,  and  the  unrighteous  man  his  thoughts, 
the  loftiest  of  designs;  but  to  punish  him  for  being 
wrong,  however  necessary  it  may  be  for  others,  cannot, 
if  dissociated  from  the  object  of  bringing  good  out  o/ 
evil,  be  called  in  any  sense  a  noble  end.  I  think  now, 
however,  it  would  be  but  fair  in  you  to  give  me  some 
answer  to  my  question.  Do  you  think  the  poetic  use- 
less % " 

"  I  think  it  is  very  like  my  machine.  It  may  exer- 
cise the  faculties  without  subserving  any  immediate 
progress." 

"  It  is  so  difficult  to  get  out  of  the  region  of  the  poetic^ 
that  I  cannot  think  it  other  than  useful :  it  is  so  wide- 
spread. The  useless  could  hardly  be  so  nearly  univer- 
sal But  I  should  like  to  ask  you  another  question  : 
What  is  the  immediate  effect  of  anything  poetic  upoa 
your  mind  % " 

"  Pleasure,"  he  answered. 

"  And  IS  pleasure  good  or  bad  1 " 

"  Sometimes  the  one,  sometimes  the  other." 


THE    ORGANIST.  153 


"In  itself?" 

"  I  should  say  so." 

"  I  should  not." 

"  Are  you  not,  then,  by  your  very  profession,  more  or 
less  an  enemy  of  pleasure  1 " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  that  pleasure  is  good,  and 
does  good,  and  urges  to  good.      Care  is  the  evil  thing." 

"  Strange  doctrine  for  a  clergyman." 

"  Now,  do  not  misunderstand  me,  Mr  Stoddart.  That 
might  not  hurt  you,  but  it  would  distress  me.  Pleasure,, 
obtained  by  wrong,  is  poison  and  horror.  But  it  is  not 
the  pleasure  that  hurts,  it  is  the  wrong  that  is  in  it  that 
hurts ;  the  pleasure  hurts  only  as  it  leads  to  more  wrong. 
I  almost  think  myself,  that  if  you  could  make  everybody 
happy,  half  the  evil  would  vanish  from  the  earth." 

"  But  you  believe  in  God  t " 

« I  hope  in  God  I  do." 

*'  How  can  you  then  think  that  He  would  not  destroy 
evil  at  such  a  cheap  and  pleasant  rate." 

"  Because  He  wants  to  destroy  a//  the  evil,  not  the 
half  of  it ;  and  destroy  it  so  that  it  shall  not  grow  again ; 
wliich  it  would  be  sure  to  do  very  soon  if  it  had  no  anti- 
dote but  happiness.  As  soon  as  men  got  used  to  happi- 
ness, they  would  begin  to  sin  again,  and  so  lose  it  all. 
But  care  is  distrust.  I  wonder  now  if  ever  there  was  a 
man  who  did  his  duty,  and  ^ook  no  thonght.  I  wish  I 
could  get  the  testimony  of  such  a  man.  Has  anybody 
actually  tried  the  plan  % " 

But  here  I  saw  that  I  was  not  taking  Mr  Stoddart  Avith 
me  (as  the  old  phrase  was).     The  reason  I  supposed  to 


\54  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOl'RHOOD. 


be,  that  he  had  never  been  troubled  with  much  care 
But  there  remained  the  question,  whether  he  trusted  in 
God  or  the  Bank  1 

I  went  back  to  the  original  question. 

"  But  I  should  be  very  sorry  you  should  think,  that  to 
give  pleasure  was  my  object  in  saying  poetic  things  in 
the  pulpit.  If  I  do  so,  it  is  because  true  things  come  to 
me  in  their  natural  garments  of  poetic  forms.  What  you 
call  the  poetic  is  only  the  outer  beauty  that  belongs  to  all 
inner  or  spiritual  beauty — ^just  as  a  lovely  face — mind,  I 
say  lovely,  not  pretty,  not  handsome — is  the  outward  and 
visible  presence  of  a  lovely  mind.  Therefore,  saying  I 
cannot  dissociate  beauty  from  use,  I  am  free  to  say  as 
many  poetic  things — though,  mind,  I  don't  claim  them : 
you  attribute  them  to  me — as  shall  be  of  the  highest  use, 
namely,  to  embody  and  reveal  the  true.  But  a  machine 
has  material  use  for  its  end.  The  most  grotesque  ma- 
chine I  ever  saw  that  did  something,  I  felt  to  be  in  its 
own  kind  beautiful;  as  God  called  many  fierce  and 
grotesque  things  good  when  He  made  the  world — good 
for  their  good  end.  But  your  machine  does  nothing 
more  than  raise  the  metaphysical  doubt  and  question, 
whether  it  can  with  propriety  be  called  a  perpetual 
motion  or  not?" 

To  this  Mr  Stoddart  making  no  reply,  I  take  the 
opportunity  of  the  break  in  our  conversation  to  say  to 
my  readers,  that  I  know  there  was  no  satisfactory  follow- 
ing out  of  an  argument  on  either  side  in  the  passage  of 
words  I  have  just  given.  Even  the  closest  reasoner 
finds  it  next  to  impossible  to  attend  to  all  the  sugges- 


THE    ORGANIST.  155 


tions  in  his  own  mind,  not  one  of  whichbiie  is  willing  to 
lose,  to  attend  at  the  same  time  to  everything  his  anta- 
gonist says  or  suggests,  that  he  may  do  him  justice,  and 
to  keep  an  even  course  towards  his  goal — each  having 
the  opposite  goal  in  view.  In  fact,  an  argument,  how- 
ever simply  conducted  and  honourable,  must  just  resem- 
ble a  game  at  football ;  the  unfortunate  question  being 
the  ball,  and  the  numerous  and  sometimes  conflicting 
thoughts  which  arise  in  each  mind  forming  the  two  par- 
ties whose  energies  are  spent  in  a  succession  of  kicks. 
In  fact,  I  don't  Hke  argument,  and  I  don't  care  for  the 
victory.  If  I  had  my  way,  I  would  never  argue  at  all. 
I  would  spend  my  energy  in  setting  forth  what  I  believe 
• — as  like  itself  as  I  could  represent  it,  and  so  leave  it  to 
work  its  own  way,  which,  if  it  be  the  right  way,  it  must 
work  in  the  right  mind, — for  Wisdom  is  justified  of  her 
children ;  while  no  one  who  loves  the  truth  can  be  other 
than  anxious,  that  if  he  has  spoken  the  evil  thing  it  may 
return  to  him  void  :  that  is  a  defeat  he  may  well  pray 
for.  To  succeed  in  the  wrong  is  the  most  dreadful 
punishment  to  a  man  who,  in  the  main,  is  honest.  But 
I  beg  to  assure  my  reader  I  could  write  a  long  treatise 
on  the  matter  between  Mr  Stoddart  and  myself;  there- 
fore, if  he  is  not  yet  interested  in  such  questions,  let  him 
be  thankful  to  me  for  considering  such  a  treatise  out  of 
place  here.  I  will  only  say  in  brief,  that  I  believe  with 
all  my  heart  that  the  true  is  the  beautiful,  and  that  no- 
thing evil  can  be  other  than  ugly.  If  it  seems  not  so,  it 
is  in  virtue  of  some  good  mingled  with  the  evil,  and  not 
in  the  smallest  degree  in  virtue  of  the  evil. 


IS6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  thought  it  was  time  for  me  to  take  my  leave.  But 
I  could  not  bear  to  run  away  with  the  last  word,  as  it 
were  :  so  I  said, 

"  You  put  plenty  of  poetry  yourself  into  that  voluntary 
you  played  last  Sunday.  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you 
for  it ! " 

"  Oh  !  that  fugue.     You  liked  it,  did  you  ] " 

"  More  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"  I  am  very  glad." 

"  Do  you  know  those  two  lines  of  Milton  in  which  he 
describes  such  a  performance  on  the  organ  ] " 

"  No.     Can  you  repeat  them  1 " 

"  '  His  volant  touch, 
Instinct  through  all  proportions,  low  and  high. 
Fled  and  pursued  transverse  the  resonant  fugue."* 

"That  is  wonderfully  fine.  Thank  you.  That  is 
better  than  my  fugue  by  a  good  deal.  You  have  can- 
celled the  obligation." 

"  Do  you  think  doing  a  good  turn  again  is  cancelling 
an  obligation  1  I  don't  think  an  obligation  can  ever  be 
returned  in  the  sense  of  being  got  rid  of.  But  I  am 
being  hypercritical." 

"  Not  at  all. — Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking  of 
while  playing  that  fugue  % "    . 

"  I  should  like  much  to  hear." 

"I  had  been  thinking,  while  you  were  preaching,  of 
the  many  fancies  men  had  worshipped  for  the  truth; 
now  following  this,  now  following  that;  ever  believing 
they  were  on  the  point  of  laying  hold  upon  her,  and 
going  down  to  the  grave  empty-handed  as  they  came»" 


THE    OXGANIST.  I5J 

"And  empty-hearted,  tool"  I  asked;  but  he  went  on 
without  heeding  me. 

"  And  I  saw  a  vision  of  multitudes  following,  follow- 
ing where  nothing  was  to  be  seen,  with  arms  out- 
stretched in  all  directions,  some  clasping  vacancy  to 
their  bosoms,  some  reaching  on  tiptoe  over  the  heads 
of  their  neighbours,  and  some  with  hanging  heads,  and 
hands  clasped  behind  their  backs,  retiring  hopeless  from 
the  chase." 

"  Strange  ! "  I  said ;  **  for  I  felt  so  full  of  hope  while 
you  played,  that  I  never  doubted  it  was  hope  you  meant 
to  express." 

"  So  I  do  not  doubt  I  did ;  for  the  multitude  was  full 
of  hope,  vain  hope,  to  lay  hold  upon  the  truth.  And 
you,  being  full  of  the  main  expression,  and  in  sympathy 
with  it,  did  not  heed  the  undertones  of  disappointment, 
or  the  sighs  of  those  who  turned  their  backs  on  the 
chase.     Just  so  it  is  in  life." 

"I  am  no  musician,"  I  returned,  "to  give  you  a 
musical  counter  to  your  picture.  But  I  see  a  grave 
man  tilling  the  ground  in  peace,  and  the  form  of  Truth 
standing  behind  him,  and  folding  her  wings  closer  and 
closer  over  and  around  him  as  he  works  on  at  his  day's 
labour." 

"  Very  pretty,*'  said  Mr  Stoddart,  and  said  no  more. 

"  Suppose,"  I  went  on,  "  that  a  person  knows  that  he 
has  not  laid  hold  on  the  truth,  is  that  sufficient  ground 
for  his  making  any  further  assertion  than  that  he  has 
not  found  it  ] " 

**  No.     But  if  he  has  tried  hard  and  has  not  found 


158  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

anything  that  he  can  say  is  tme,  he  cannot  help  tliinking 
that  most  Ukely  there  is  no  such  thing." 

"  Suppose,"  I  said,  "  that  nobody  has  found  the  truth, 
is  that  sufficient  ground  for  saying  that  nobody  ever  will 
find  it?  or  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  truth  to  be 
found]  Are  the  ages  so  nearly  done  that  no  chance 
yet  remains  %  Surely  if  God  has  made  us  to  desire  the 
truth,  He  has  got  some  truth  to  cast  into  the  gulf  of 
that  desire.  Shall  God  create  hunger  and  no  food? 
But  possibly  a  man  may  be  looking  the  wrong  way  for 
it.  You  may  be  using  the  microscope,  when  you  ought 
to  open  both  eyes  and  lift  up  your  head.  Or  a  man 
may  be  finding  some  truth  which  is  feeding  his  soul, 
when  he  does  not  think  he  is  finding  any.  You  know 
the  Fairy  Queen.  Think  how  long  the  Redcross  Knight 
travelled  with  the  Lady  Truth — Una,  you  know — with- 
out learning  to  believe  in  her;  and  how  much  longer  still 
without  ever  seeing  her  face.  For  my  part,  may  God 
give  me  strength  to  follow  till  I  die.  Only  I  will  venture 
to  say  this,  that  it  is  not  by  any  agony  of  the  intellect 
that  I  expect  to  discover  her." 

Mr  Stoddart  sat  drumming  silently  with  his  fingers,  a 
half-smile  on  his  face,  and  his  eyes  raised  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees.  I  felt  that  the  enthusiasm  with  which 
I  had  spoken  was  thrown  away  upon  him.  But  I  was 
not  going  to  be  ashamed  therefore.  I  would  put  some 
faith  in  his  best  nature. 

"  But  does  not,"  he  said,  gently  lowering  his  eyes 
upon  mine  after  a  moment's  pause — "does  not  your 
choice  of  a  profession  imply  that  you  have  not  to  give 


THE    ORGANIST.  1^9 


chase  to  a  fleeting  phantom?  Do  you  not  profess  to 
have,  and  hold,  and  therefore  teach  the  truth  1 " 

"  I  profess  only  to  have  caught  glimpses  of  her  white 
garments, — those,  I  mean,  of  the  abstract  truth  of  which 
you  speak.  But  I  have  seen  that  which  is  eternally  be- 
yond her :  the  ideal  in  the  real,  the  living  truth,  not  the 
truth  that  I  can  ^Aink,  but  the  truth  that  thinks  itself, 
that  thinks  me,  that  God  has  thought,  yea,  that  God  is, 
the  truth  demg  true  to  itself  and  to  God  and  to  man — 
Christ  Jesus,  my  Lord,  who  knows,  and  feels,  and  does 
the  truth.  I  have  seen  Him,  and  I  am  both  content 
and  unsatisfied.  For  in  Him  are  hid  all  the  treasures 
of  wisdom  and  knowledge.  Thomas  a  Kempis  says : 
*  Cui  asternum  Verbum  loquitur,  ille  a  multis  opinionibus 
expeditur.' "  (He  to  whom  the  eternal  Word  speaks,  is 
set  free  from  a  press  of  opinions.) 

I  rose,  and  held  out  my  hand  to  Mr  Stoddart.  He 
rose  likewise,  and  took  it  kindly,  conducted  me  to  the 
room  below,  and  ringing  the  bell,  committed  me  to  the 
care  of  the  butler. 

As  I  approached  the  gate,  I  met  Jane  Rogers  coming 
back  from  the  village.  I  stopped  and  spoke  to  her. 
fler  eyes  were  very  red. 

"Nothing  amiss  at  home,  Janel"  I  said. 

"  No,  sir,  thank  you,"  answered  Jane,  and  burst  out 
cr>'ing. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  then  1     Is  your " 

"  Nothing 's  the  matter  with  nobody,  sir." 

"  Something  is  the  matter  with  you." 


l6o  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

*'  Yes,  sir.     But  I  'm  quite  well." 

"  I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  affairs ;  but  if  you 
think  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  mind  you  come  to 
me. 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  said  Jane  ;  and,  dropping  a 
courtesy,  walked  on  with  her  basket. 

1  went  to  her  parents'  cottage.  As  I  came  near  the 
mill,  the  young  miller  was  standing  in  the  door  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  while  the  mill  went  on  hop- 
ping behind  him.  But  when  he  caught  sight  of  me,  he 
turned,  and  went  in,  as  if  he  bad  not  seen  me. 

•'*  Has  he  been  behaving  ill  to  Jane?"  thought  I. 

As  he  evidently  wished  to  avoid  me,  1  passed  the  mill 
without  looking  in  at  the  door,  as  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
doing,  and  went  on  to  the  cottage,  where  I  lifted  the 
latch,  and  walked  in.  Both  the  old  people  were  there, 
and  both  looked  troubled,  though  they  welcomed  me 
none  the  less  kindly. 

"  I  met  Jane,"  I  said,  "  and  she  looked  unhappy ;  so 
I  came  on  to  hear  what  was  the  matter." 

"  You  oughtn't  to  be  troubled  with  our  small  affairs," 
said  Mrs  Rogers. 

"  If  the  parson  wants  to  know,  why,  the  parson  must 
be  told,"  said  Old  Rogers,  smiling  cheerily,  as  if  he,  at 
least,  would  be  relieved  by  telling  me. 

"  I  don't  want  to  know,"  I  said,  "  if  you  don't  want  to 
tell  me.     But  can  I  be  of  any  use?" 

"  I  don't  think  you  can,  sir, — leastways,  I  'm  afraid 
not,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  sir,  that  Master  Brownrigg  and 


THE    ORGANIST.  l6l 


his  son  has  come  to  words  about  our  Jane ;  and  it 's  not 
agreeable  to  have  folk's  daughter  quarrelled  over  in  that 
way,"  said  Old  Rogers.  "  What  '11  be  the  upshot  on  it, 
I  don't  know,  but  it  looks  bad  now.  For  the  father  he 
tells  the  son  that  if  ever  he  hear  of  him  saying  one  word 
to  our  Jane,  out  ov  the  mill  he  goes,  as  sure  as  his 
name 's  Dick.  Now,  it 's  rather  a  good  chance,  I  think, 
to  see  what  the  young  fellow 's  made  of,  sir.  So  I  tells 
my  old  'oman  here ;  and  so  I  told  Jane.  But  neither  on 
'em  seems  to  see  the  comfort  of  it  somehow.  But  the 
New  Testament  do  say  a  man  shall  leave  father  and 
mother,  and  cleave  to  his  wife." 

"  But  she  ain't  his  wife  yet,"  said  Mrs  Rogers  to  her 
husband,  whose  drift  was  not  yet  evident. 

"  No  more  she  can  be,  'cept  he  leaves  his  father  for 
her." 

"  And  what  '11  become  of  them  then,  without  the  mill  ?" 

"  You  and  me  never  had  no  mill,  old  'oman,"  said 
Rogers ;  "  yet  here  we  be,  very  nearly  ripe  now, — ain't 
us,  wife  r 

"  Medlar-like,  Old  Rogers,  I  doubt, — ^rotten  before 
we  're  ripe,"  replied  his  wife,  quoting  a  more  humorous 
than  refined  proverb. 

"  Nay,  nay,  old  'oman.  Don't  'e  say  so.  The  Lord 
won't  let  us  rot  before  we  're  ripe,  anyhow.  That  I  be 
sure  on." 

"  But,  anyhow,  it  *s  ail  very  well  to  talk.     Thou  knows 
how  to  talk,  Rogers.     But  how  will  it  be  when  the 
children  comes,  and  no  mill  V 
.  "  To  grind  'em  in,  old  'oman  V 

L 


l62  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Mrs  Rogers  turned  to  me,  who  was  listening  with  real 
interest,  and  much  amusement. 

"  I  wish  you  would  speak  a  word  to  Old  Rogers,  sir. 
He  never  will  speak  as  he 's  spoken  to.  He 's  always 
over  merry,  or  over  serious.  He  either  takes  me  up 
short  with  a  sermon,  or  he  laughs  me  out  of  countenance 
that  I  don't  know  where  to  look." 

Now  I  was  pretty  sure  that  Rogers  s  conduct  was 
simple  consistency,  and  that  the  difficulty  arose  from  his 
always  acting  upon  one  or  two  of  the  plainest  principles 
of  truth  and  right ;  whereas  his  wife,  good  woman — foi 
the  bad,  old  leaven  of  the  Pharisees  could  not  rise  much 
in  her  somehow — was  always  reminding  him  of  certain 
precepts  of  behaviour  to  the  oblivion  of  principles.  "  A 
bird  in  the  hand,"  &c. — "  Marry  in  haste,"  &c — "  When 
want  comes  in  at  the  door  love  flies  out  at  the  window," 
were  amongst  her  favourite  sayings;  although  not  one  of 
them  was  supported  by  her  own  experience.  For  in- 
stance, she  had  married  in  haste  herself,  and  never,  I 
believe,  had  once  thought  of  repenting  of  it,  although 
she  had  had  far  more  than  the  requisite  leisure  for  doing 
so.  And  many  was  the  time  that  want  had  come  in  at 
her  door,  and  the  first  thing  it  always  did  was  to  clip 
the  wings  of  Love,  and  make  him  less  flighty,  and  more 
tender  and  serviceable.  So  I  could  not  even  pretend  to 
read  her  husband  a  lecture. 

"  He 's  a  curious  man.  Old  Rogers,"  I  said.  "  But  as 
far  as  I  can  see,  he 's  in  the  right,  in  the  main.  Isn't  he 
now?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  daresay.     I  think  he 's  always  right  about 


THE    ORGANIST.  163 


the  rights  of  the  thing,  you  know.  But  a  body  may  go 
too  far  that  way.     It  won't  do  to  starve,  sir." 

Strange  confusion — or,  ought  I  not  rather  to  sayl— 
ordinary  and  commonplace  confusion  of  ideas  ! 

"  I  don't  think,"  I  said,  "  any  one  can  go  too  far  ir 
the  right  way." 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  my  old  'oman  to  see,  and  I 
can't  get  it  into  her,  sir.  If  a  thing 's  right,  it 's  right, 
and  if  a  thing 's  wrong,  why,  wrong  it  is.  The  helm  must 
either  be  to  starboard  or  port,  sir." 

"But  why  talk  of  starving?"  I  said.  "Can't  Dick 
work  1    Who  could  think  of  starting  that  nonsense  1 " 

"  Why,  my  old  'oman  here.  She  wants  'em  to  give  it 
up,  and  wait  for  better  times.  The  fact  is,  she  don't 
want  to  lose  the  girL" 

"  But  she  hasn't  got  her  at  home  now." 

"  She  can  have  her  when  she  wants  her,  though — 
leastways  after  a  bit  of  warning.  Whereas,  if  she  was 
married,  and  the  consequences  a  foUerin'  at  her  heels, 
like  a  man-o'-war  with  her  convoy,  she  would  find  she 
was  chartered  for  another  port,  she  would." 

"  Well,  you  see,  sir,  Rogers  and  me 's  not  so  young  as 
we  once  was,  and  we  're  likely  to  be  growing  older  every 
day.  And  if  there 's  a  difficulty  in  the  way  of  Jane's 
mairiage,  why,  I  take  it  as  a  Godsend." 

"  How  would  you  have  liked  such  a  Godsend,  Mrs 
Rogers,  when  you  were  going  to  be  married  to  your 
sailor  here  t    What  would  you  have  done  ?" 

"  Why,  whatever  he  liked  to  be  sure.  But  then,  you 
see,  Dick's  not  my  Rogers." 


164  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  But  your  daughter  thinks  about  him  much  in  the 
same  way  as  you  did  about  this  dear  old  man  here  when 
he  was  young." 

"  Young  people  may  be  in  the  wrong,  /  see  nothing 
in  Dick  Brownrigg." 

"  But  young  people  may  be  right  sometimes,  and  ok' 
people  may  be  wrong  sometimes." 

"  I  can't  be  wrong  about  Rogers." 

"  No,  but  you  may  be  wrong  about  Dick." 

"  Doh't  you  trouble  yourself  about  my  old  'oman,  sir. 
She  alius  was  awk'ard  in  stays,  but  she  never  missed 
them  yet.  When  she 's  said  her  say,  round  she  comes 
in  the  wind  like  a  bird,  sir." 

"  There 's  a  good  old  man  to  stick  up  for  your  old 
wife!  Still,  I  say,  they  may  as  well  wait  a  bit  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  anger  the  old  gentleman." 

"  What  does  the  young  man  say  to  iti" 

"  Why,  he  says,  like  a  man,  he  can  work  for  her  as 
well's  the  mill,  and  he's  ready,  if  she  is." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  such  a  good  account  of 
him.  I  shall  look  in,  and  have  a  little  chat  with  him. 
I  always  liked  the  look  of  him.  Good  morning,  Mrs 
Rogers." 

"  I  '11  see  you  across  the  stream,  sir,"  said  the  old  man, 
following  me  out  of  the  house. 

"  You  see,  sir,"  he  resumed,  as  soon  as  we  were  out- 
side, "  I  'm  always  afeard  of  taking  things  out  of  the 
Lord's  hands.  It's  the  right  way,  surely,  that  when  a 
man  loves  a  woman,  and  has  told  her  so,  he  should  act 
like  a  man,  and  do  as  is  right    And  isn't  that  the  Lord's 


THE    ORGANIST.  165 


way?  And  can't  He  give  them  what's  good  for  them. 
Mayliap  they  won't  love  each  other  the  less  in  the  end 
if  Dick  has  a  little  bit  of  the  hard  work  that  many  a  man 
that  the  Lord  loved  none  the  less  has  had  before  him. 
1  wouldn't  like  to  anger  the  old  gentleman,  as  my  wife 
says  ;  but  if  I  was  Dick,  I  know  what  1  would  do.  But 
dont  'e  think  hard  of  my  wife,  sir,  for  I  believe  there  's  a 
bit  of  pride  in  it.  She 's  ^feard  of  bein'  supposed  to 
catch  at  Richard  Brownrigg,  because  he 's  above  us,  you 
know,  sir.  And  I  can't  altogether  blame  her,  only  we 
ain't  got  to  do  with  the  look  o'  things,  but  with  the 
things  themselves." 

"  I  understand  you  quite,  and  I  'm  very  much  of  your 
mind.  You  can  trust  me  to  have  a  little  chat  with  him, 
can't  you?" 

"  That  I  can,  sir." 

Here  we  had  come  to  the  boundary  of  his  garden — 
the  busy  stream  that  ran  away,  as  if  it  was  scared  at  the 
labour  it  had  been  compelled  to  go  through,  and  was 
now  making  the  best  of  its  speed  back  to  its  mother- 
ocean,  to  tell  sad  tales  of  a  world  where  every  little 
brook  must  do  some  work  ere  it  gets  back  to  its  rest.  I 
bade  him  good  day,  jumped  across  it,  and  went  into  the 
mill,  where  Richard  was  tying  the  mouth  of  a  sack,  as 
gloomily  as  the  brothers  of  Joseph  must  have  tied  their 
sacks  after  his  silver  cup  had  been  found. 

"  Why  did  you  turn  away  from  me,  as  I  passed  halt- 
an-hour  ago,  Richard?"  I  said,  cheerily. 

"  T  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  didn't  think  you  saw 
me." 


l66  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  But  supposing  I  hadn't  ? — But  I  won't  tease  you.  I 
Know  all  about  it     Can  I  do  anything  for  you  1" 

"  No,  sir.  You  can't  move  my  father.  It 's  no  use 
talking  to  him.  He  never  hears  a  word  anybody  says. 
He  never  hears  a  word  you  say  o'  Sundays,  sir.  He 
won't  even  believe  the  Mark  Lane  Express  about  the 
price  of  com.     It's  no  use  talking  to  him,  sir." 

"You  wouldn't  mind  if  I  were  to  try?" 

"  No,  sir.  You  can't  make  matters  worse.  No  more 
can  you  make  them  any  better,  sir." 

"  I  don't  say  I  shall  talk  to  him ;  but  I  may  try  it,  if 
I  find  a  fitting  opportunity." 

"  He 's  always  worse — more  obstinate,  that  is,  when 
he 's  in  a  good  temper.  So  you  may  choose  your  oppor- 
tunity wrong.  But  it 's  all  the  same.  It  can  make  no 
difference." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  then  1" 

"  I  would  let  him  do  his  worst.  But  Jane  doesn't 
like  to  go  against  her  mother.  I  'm  sure  I  can't  think 
how  she  should  side  with  my  father  against  both  of 
us.  He  never  laid  her  under  any  such  obligation,  I  'ra 
sure." 

"  There  may  be  more  ways  than  one  of  accounting 
for  that.  You  must  mind,  however,  and  not  be  too  hard 
upon  your  father.  You're  quite  right  in  holding  fast  to 
Ihe  girl;  but  mind  that  vexation  does  not  make  you 
unjust." 

"  I  wish  my  mother  were  alive.  She  was  the  only  one 
that  ever  could  manage  him.  How  she  contrived  to  do 
it  nobody  could  think ;  but  manage  him  she  did,  some- 


THE    ORGANIST.  167 


how  or  other.     There 's  not  a  husk  of  use  in  talking  to 

"  I  daresay  he  prides  himself  on  not  being  moved  by 
talk.  But  has  he  ever  had  a  chance  of  knowing  Jane — 
of  seeing  what  kind  of  a  girl  she  is  1" 

"  He 's  seen  her  over  and  over." 

"  But  seeing  isn't  always  believing." 

"  It  certainly  isn't  with  him." 

*  If  he  could  only  know  her !  But  don't  you  be  too 
hard  upon  him.  And  don't  do  anything  in  a  hurry. 
Give  him  a  little  time,  you  know.  Mrs  Rogers  won't 
interfere  between  you  and  Jane,  I  am  pretty  sure.  But 
don't  push  matters  till  we  see.     Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  and  thank  you  kindly,  sir. — Ain't  I  to  see 
Jane  in  the  meantime  1 " 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  would  make  no  difference.  See 
her  as  often  as  you  used,  which  I  suppose  was  as  often 
as  you  could.  I  don't  think,  I  say,  that  her  mother  will 
interfere.     Her  father  is  all  on  your  side." 

I  called  on  Mr  Brownrigg ;  but,  as  his  son  had  fore- 
warned me,  I  could  make  nothing  of  him.  He  didn't 
see,  when  the  mill  was  his  property,  and  Dick  was  his 
son,  why  he  shouldn't  have  his  way  with  them.  And  he 
was  going  to  have  his  way  with  them.  His  son  might 
marry  any  lady  in  the  land;  and  he  wasn't  going  to 
throw  himself  away  that  way. 

I  will  not  weary  my  readers  with  the  conversation  we 
had  together.  All  my  missiles  of  argument  were  lost 
as  it  were  in  a  bank  of  mud,  the  weight  and  resistance 
of  which  they  only  increased.     My  experience  in  the 


|68  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

attempt,  however,  did  a  little  to  reconcile  me  to  his 
going  to  sleep  in  church ;  for  I  saw  that  it  could  make 
little  difference  whether  he  was  asleep  or  awake.  He, 
and  not  Mr  Stoddart  in  his  organ  sentry-box,  was  the 
only  person  whom  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  preach 
to.     You  might  preach  at  him;  but  to  him? — no. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MY  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

IJS  Christmas  Day  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  my 
heart  glowed  with  the  more  gladness;  and 
the  question  came  more  and  more  pressingly 
— Could  I  not  do  something  to  make  it  more 
really  a  holiday  of  the  Church  for  my  parishioners  1 
That  most  of  them  would  have  a  little  more  enjoyment 
on  it  than  they  had  had  all  the  year  through,  I  had 
ground  to  hope ;  but  I  wanted  to  connect  this  gladness 
— in  their  minds,  I  mean,  for  who  could  dissever  them 
in  fact? — with  its  source,  the  love  of  God,  that  love 
manifested  unto  men  in  the  birth  of  the  Human  Babe, 
the  Son  of  Man.  But  I  would  not  interfere  with  the 
Christmas  Day  at  home.  I  resolved  to  invite  as  many 
of  my  parishioners  as  would  come,  to  spend  Christmas 
Eve  at  the  Vicarage. 

I  therefore  had  a  notice  to  that  purport  affixed  to  the 
Qhyrch  door ;  and  rpsplved  to  send  out  no  personal  in- 


ITO  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

vitations  whatever,  so  that  I  might  not  give  offence  b> 
accidental  omission.  The  only  person  thrown  into  per- 
plexity by  this  mode  of  proceeding  was  Mrs  Pearson. 

"  How  many  am  I  to  provide  for,  sir  1 "  she  said,  with 
an  injured  air. 

"  For  as  many  as  you  ever  saw  in  church  at  one  time," 
I  said.  "  And  if  there  should  be  too  much,  why  so  much 
the  bettor.  It  can  go  to  make  Chpstmas  Day  the  mer- 
rier at  some  of  the  poorer  houses." 

She  looked  discomposed,  for  she  was  not  of  an  easy 
temper.  But  she  never  acfed  from  her  temper ;  she  only 
locked  or  spoke  from  it 

"  I  shall  want  help,"  she  said,  at  length. 

"  As  much  as  you  like,  Mrs  Pearson.  I  can  trust  you 
entirely.** 

Her  face  brightened ;  and  the  end  showed  that  I  had 
not  trusted  her  amiss. 

I  was  a  little  anxious  about  the  result  of  the  invitation — 
partly  as  indicating  the  amount  of  confidence  my  people 
placed  in  me.  But  although  no  one  said  a  word  to  me 
about  it  beforehand  except  Old  Rogers,  as  soon  as  tiie 
hour  arrived,  the  people  began  to  come.  And  the  first 
I  welcomed  was  Mr  Brownrigg. 

I  had  had  all  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor  prepared 
for  their  reception.  Tables  of  provision  were  set  out  in 
every  one  of  tliem.  My  visitors  had  tea  or  coffee,  with 
plenty  of  bread  and  butter,  when  they  arrived ;  and  the 
more  solid  supplies  were  reserved  for  a  later  part  of  the 
evening.  I  soon  found  myself  with  enough  to  do.  But 
before  ^qng,  I  had  a  veiy  efficient  stafif.     For  after  haying 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  171 

had  occasion,  once  or  twice,  to  mention  something  of 
my  plans  for  the  evening,  I  found  my  labours  gradually 
diminish,  and  yet  everything  seemed  to  go  right;  the 
fact  being  that  good  Mr  Boulderstone,  in  one  part,  had 
cast  himself  into  the  middle  of  the  flood,  and  stood  there 
immovable  both  in  face  and  person,  turning  its  waters 
into  the  right  channel,  namely,  towards  the  barn,  which 
I  had  fitted  up  for  their  reception  in  a  body;  while  in 
another  quarter,  namely,  in  the  barn,  Dr  Duncan  was 
doing  his  best,  and  that  was  simply  something  first-rate, 
to  entertain  the  people  till  all  should  be  ready.  From  a 
kind  of  instinct  these  gentlemen  had  taken  upon  them 
to  be  my  staff)  almost  without  knowing  it,  and  very 
grateful  I  was.  I  found,  too,  that  they  soon  gathered 
some  of  the  young  and  more  active  spirits  about  them, 
whom  they  employed  in  various  ways  for  the  good  of 
the  community. 

When  I  came  in  and  saw  the  goodly  assemblage,  for  I 
had  been  busy  receiving  them  in  the  house,  I  could  not 
help  rejoicing  that  m.y  predecessor  had  been  so  fond  of 
farming  that  he  had  rented  land  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  vicarage,  and  built  this  large  barn,  of  which  I 
could  make  a  hall  to  entertain  my  friends.  The  night 
was  frosty — the  stars  shining  brilliantly  overhead — so 
that,  especially  for  country  people,  there  was  little 
danger  in  the  short  passage  to  be  made  to  it  from  the 
house.  But,  if  necessary,  I  resolved  to  have  a  covered- 
way  built  before  next  time.  For  how  can  a  man  be  the 
person  of  a  parish,  if  he  never  entertains  his  parishioners  1 
And  really,  though  it  was  lighted  only  with  candles  round' 


172  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

the  walls,  and  I  had  not  been  able  to  do  much  for  the 
decoration  of  the  place,  I  thought  it  looked  very  well, 
and  my  heart  was  glad  that  Christmas  Eve — ^just  as  I', 
the  Babe  had  been  coming  again  to  us  that  same  night 
And  is  He  not  always  coming  to  us  afresh  in  every 
childlike  feeling  that  awakes  in  the  hearts  of  His  people? 
I  walked  about  amongst  them,  greeting  them,  and 
greeted  everywhere  in  turn  with  kind  smiles  and  hearty 
shakes  of  the  hand.  As  often  as  I  paused  in  my  com- 
munications for  a  moment,  it  was  amusing  to  watch  Mr 
Boulderstone's  honest,  though  awkward  endeavours  to 
be  at  ease  with  his  inferiors ;  but  Dr  Duncan  was  just  a 
sight  worth  seeing.  Very  tall  and  very  stately,  he  was 
talking  now  to  this  old  man,  now  to  that  young  woman, 
and  every  face  glistened  towards  which  he  turned.  There 
was  no  condescension  about  him.  He  was  as  polite 
and  courteous  to  one  as  to  another,  and  the  smile  that 
every  now  and  then  lighted  up  his  old  face,  was  genuine 
and  sympathetic.  No  one  could  have  known  by  his 
behaviour  that  he  was  not  at  court.  And  I  thought — 
Surely  even  the  contact  with  such  a  man  will  do  some- 
thing to  refine  the  taste  of  my  people.  I  felt  more  cer- 
tain than  ever  that  a  free  mingling  of  all  classes  would 
do  more  than  anything  else  towards  binding  us  all  into 
a  wise  patriotic  nation ;  would  tend  io  keep  down  that 
foolish  emulation  which  makes  one  class  ape  another 
from  afar,  like  Ben  Jonson's  Fungoso,  "  still  lighting 
short  a  suit;"  would  refine  the  roughness  of  the  rude, 
and  enable  the  polished  to  see  with  what  safety  his  just 
share  in  public  matters  might  be  committed  into  the 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  I73 

hands  of  the  honest  workman.  If  we  could  once  leave 
it  to  each  other  to  give  what  honour  is  due ;  knowing 
that  honour  demanded  is  as  worthless  as  insult  unde 
served  is  hurtless !  What  has  one  to  do  to  honour  him- 
self? That  is  and  can  be  no  honour.  When  one  lias 
learned  to  seek  the  honour  that  cometh  from  God  only, 
he  will  take  the  withholding  of  the  honour  that  comes 
from  men  very  quietly  indeed. 

The  only  thing  that  disappointed  me  was,  that  there 
was  no  one  there  to  represent  Oldcastle  Hall.  But  how 
could  I  have  everything  a  success  at  once !  —  And 
Catherine  Weir  was  likewise  absent. 

After  we  had  spent  a  while  in  pleasant  talk,  and  when 
I  thought  nearly  all  were  with  us,  I  got  up  on  a  chair  at 
the  end  of  the  barn,  and  said  : — 

"  Kind  friends, — I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  honour- 
ing my  invitation  as  you  have  done.  Permit  me  to  hope 
that  this  meeting  will  be  the  first  of  many,  and  that  from 
it  may  grow  the  yearly  custom  in  this  parish  of  gathering 
in  love  and  friendship  upon  Christmas  Eve.  When  God 
comes  to  man,  man  looks  round  for  his  neighbour. 
When  man  departed  from  God  in  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
the  only  man  in  the  world  ceased  to  be  the  friend  of  the 
only  woman  in  the  world ;  and,  instead  of  seeking  to 
bear  her  burden,  became  her  accuser  to  God,  in  whom 
he  saw  only  the  Judge,  unable  to  perceive  that  the 
infinite  love  of  the  Father  had  come  to  punish  him  in 
tenderness  and  grace.  But  when  God  in  Jesus  c-mies 
back  to  men,  brothers  and  sisters  spread  forth  thcii  .irms 
to  embrace  each  other,  and  so  to  embrace  Him.      This 


174  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

is,  when  He  is  born  again  in  our  souls.  For,  deaf 
friends,  what  we  all  need  is  just  to  become  little  chil- 
dren like  Him ;  to  cease  to  be  careful  about  many 
things,  and  trust  in  Him,  seeking  only  that  He  should 
rule,  and  that  we  should  be  made  good  like  Him.  What 
.  else  is  meant  by  *  Seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God 
and  his  righteousness,  and  all  these  things  shall  be  added 
unto  youl'  Instead  of  doing  so,  we  seek  the  things 
God  has  promised  to  look  after  for  us,  and  refuse  to 
seek  the  thing  He  wants  us  to  seek — a  thing  that  can- 
not be  given  us,  except  we  seek  it  We  profess  to 
think  Jesus  the  grandest  and  most  glorious  of  men,  and 
yet  hardly  care  to  be  like  Him ;  and  so  when  we  are 
offered  His  Spirit,  that  is,  His  very  nature  within  us, 
for  the  asking,  we  will  hardly  take  the  trouble  to  ask  for 
it.  But  to-night,  at  least,  let  all  unkind  thoughts,  all 
hard  judgments  of  one  another,  all  selfish  desires  after 
our  own  way,  be  put  from  us,  that  we  may  welcome  the 
Eabe  into  our  very  bosoms;  that  when  He  comes 
amongst  us — for  is  He  not  like  a  child  still,  meek  and 
lowly  of  heart? — He  may  not  be  troubled  to  find  that 
we  are  quarrelsome,  and  selfish,  and  unjust." 

I  came  down  from  the  chair,  and  Mr  Brownrigg  being 
the  nearest  of  my  guests,  and  wide  awake,  for  he  had 
been  standmg,  and  had  indeed  been  listening  to  eveiy 
w  ord  according  to  his  ability,  I  shook  hands  with  him. 
And  positively  there  was  some  meaning  in  the  grasp 
with  which  he  returned  mine. 

I  am  not  going  to  record  all  the  proceedings  of  the 
evening ;  but  I  think  it  may  be  interesting  to  my  readers 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  I75 

to  know  something  of  how  we  spent  it.  First  of  all,  we 
sang  a  hymn  about  the  Nativity.  And  then  I  read  an 
extract  from  a  book  of  travels,  describing  the  interior  of 
an  Eastern  cottage,  probably  much  resembUng  the  inn 
in  which  our  Lord  was  born,  the  stable  being  scarcely 
divided  fron  the  rest  of  the  house.  For  I  felt  that  to 
open  the  inner  eyes  even  of  the  brain,  enabling  people 
to  see  in  some  measure  the  reality  of  the  old  lovely  story, 
to  help  them  to  have  what  the  Scotch  philosophers  call 
a  true  conception  of  the  external  conditions  and  circum- 
stance? of  the  events,  might  help  to  open  the  yet  deeper 
spiritual  eyes  which  alone  can  see  the  meaning  and  truth 
dwelling  in  and  giving  shape  to  the  outward  facts.  And 
the  extract  was  listened  to  with  all  the  attention  I  could 
wish,  except,  at  first,  from  some  youngsters  at  the  further 
end  of  the  bam,  who  became,  however,  perfectly  still  as 
I  proceeded. 

After  this  followed  conversation,  during  which  I  talked 
a  good  deal  to  Jane  Rogers,  paying  her  particular  atten- 
tion indeed,  with  the  hope  of  a  chance  of  bringing  old 
Mr  Brownrigg  and  her  together  in  some  way. 

"  How  is  your  mistress,  Jane?"  I  said. 

"  Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you.    I  only  wish  she  was  here." 

"  I  wish  she  were.  But  perhaps  she  will  come  next 
year." 

"  \  think  she  will.  I  am  almost  sure  she  would  have 
liked  to  come  to-night ;  for  I  heard  her  say" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Jane,  for  interrupting  you ;  but 
I  would  rather  not  be  told  anything  you  may  hava 
happened  to  overhear,"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice. 


176  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Oh,  sir !"  returned  Jane,  blushing  a  dark  crimson ; 
"  it  wasn't  anything  particular." 

"  Still,  if  it  was  anything  on  which  a  wrong  conjecture 
might  be  built" — I  wanted  to  soften  it  to  her — "it  is 
better  that  one  should  not  be  told  it.  Thank  you  for 
your  kind  intention,  though.  And  now,  Jane,"  I  said, 
"  will  you  do  me  a  favour?" 

"  That  I  will,  sir,  if  I  can." 

"  Sing  that  Christmas  carol  I  heard  you  sing  last  night 
to  your  mother." 

"  I  didn't  know  any  one  was  listening,  sir." 

"  I  know  you  did  not.  I  came  to  the  door  with  your 
father,  and  we  stood  and  listened." 

She  looked  very  frightened.  But  I  would  not  have 
asked  her  had  I  not  known  that  she  could  sing  like  a 
bird. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  make  a  fool  of  myself,"  she  said. 

"  We  should  all  be  willing  to  run  that  risk  for  the  sake 
of  others,"  I  answered. 

"  I  will  try  then,  sir." 

So  she  sang,  and  her  clear  voice  soon  silenced  the 
speech  all  round. 

*'  Babe  Jesus  lay  on  Mary's  lap  j 
The  sun  shone  in  His  hair : 
And  so  it  was  she  saw,  mayhap^ 
The  ccowu  already  there. 

"For  she  sang  :  '  Sleep  on,  my  little  Kingt 
Bad  Herod  dares  not  come  ; 
Before  Thee,  sleeping,  holy  thmg. 
Wild  winds  would  soon  be  dumb. 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  177 

** '  I  kiss  Thy  hand-,  I  kiss  Thy  feet. 
My  King,  so  long  desired  ; 
Thy  hands  shall  never  be  soil'd,  m/  sweet, 
Thy  feet  shall  never  be  tired. 

•*  '  For  Thou  art  the  King  of  men,  my  son  ; 
Thy  crown  I  see  it  plain ; 
And  men  shall  worship  Thee,  every  one^ 
And  cry.  Glory !  Amen.' 

**  Babe  Jesus  open'd  His  eyes  so  wide  I 
'  At  Mary  look'd  her  Lord. 
And  Mary  stinted  her  song  and  sigh'd. 
Babe  Jesus  said  never  a  word." 

When  Jane  had  done  singing,  I  asked  her  where  she 
.lad  learned  the  carol ;  and  she  answered, — 

"  My  mistress  gave  it  me.  There  was  a  picture  to  it 
of  the  Baby  on  his  mother  s  knee." 

"  I  never  saw  it,"  I  said.  "  Where  did  you  get  the 
time?" 

"  I  thought  it  would  go  with  a  tune  I  knew ;  and  I 
tried  it,  and  it  did.  But  I  was  not  fit  to  sing  to  you, 
sir." 

"  You  must  have  quite  a  gift  of  song,  Jane  !"  I  said. 

"  My  father  and  mother  can  both  sing." 

Mr  Brownrigg  was  seated  on  the  other  side  of  m^ 
and  had  apparently  listened  with  some  interest.  His 
face  was  ten  degrees  less  stupid  than  -it  usually  was.  I 
fancied  I  saw  even  a  glimmer  of  some  satisfaction  in  it. 
I  turned  to  Old  Rogers. 

"  Sing  us  a  song,  Old  Rogers,"  I  said. 

"  I  'm  no  canary  at  that,  sir ;  and  besides,  my  singing 

M 


178  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

days  be  over.  I  advise  you  to  ask  Dr  Duncan  there. 
He  can  sing." 

I  rose  and  said  to  the  assembly : 

"  My  friends,  if  I  did  not  think  God  was  pleased  to 
see  us  enjoying  ourselves,  I  should  have  no  heart  for  it 
myself.  I  am  going  to  ask  our  dear  friend  Dr  Duncan 
to  give  us  a  song. — If  you  please,  Dr  Duncan." 

"  I  am  very  nearly  too  old,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  but  I 
will  try." 

His  voice  was  certainly  a  little  feeble ;  but  the  song 
was  not  much  the  worse  for  it.  And  a  more  suitable  one 
foi  all  the  company  he  could  hardly  have  pitched  upon. 

**  There  is  a  plough  that  has  no  share, 
But  a  coulter  that  parteth  keen  and  fair. 
But  the  furrows  they  rise 
To  a  terrible  size, 

Or  ever  the  plough  hath  touch'd  them  there. 
'Gainst  horses  and  plough  in  wrath  they  shake : 
The  horses  are  fierce ;  but  the  plough  will  break. 

*•  And  the  seed  that  is  dropt  in  those  furrows  of  fear. 
Will  lift  to  the  sun  neither  blade  nor  ear. 
Down  it  drops  plumb, 
Where  no  spring  times  come  ; 
And  here  there  needeth  no  harrowing  gear  t 
Wheat  nor  poppy  nor  any  leaf 
Will  cover  this  naked  ground  of  grieC 

*•  But  a  harvest-day  will  come  at  last 
When  the  watery  winter  all  is  past ; 
The  waves  so  gray 
Will  be  shorn  away 
By  the  angels'  sickles  keen  and  fast  | 
And  the  buried  harvest  of  the  sea 
Stored  in  the  bams  of  eternity." 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  179 

Genuine  applause  followed  the  good  doctor's  song.  J 
turned  to  Miss  Boulderstone,  from  whom  I  had  bor- 
rowed a  piano,  and  asked  her  to  play  a  country  dance 
for  us.  But  first  I  said — not  getting  up  on  a  chair  this 
time  : — 

"  Some  people  think  it  is  not  proper  for  a  clergyman 
to  dance.  I  mean  to  assert  my  freedom  from  any  such 
law.  If  our  Lord  chose  to  represent,  in  His  parable  of 
the  Prodigal  Son,  the  joy  in  Heaven  over  a  repentant 
sinner  by  the  figure  of  '  music  and  dancing,*  I  will 
hearken  to  Him  rather  than  to  men,  be  they  as  good 
as  they  may." 

For  I  had  long  thought  that  the  way  to  make  indiffer- 
ent things  bad,  was  for  good  people  not  to  do  them. 

And  so  saying,  I  stepped  up  to  Jane  Rogers,  and 
asked  her  to  dance  with  me.  She  blushed  so  dreadfully 
that,  for  a  moment,  I  was  almost  sorry  I  had  asked  her. 
But  she  put  her  hand  in  mine  at  once ;  and  if  she  was  a 
little  clumsy,  she  yet  danced  very  naturally,  and  I  had 
the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  I  had  an  honest  girl  near 
me,  who  I  knew  was  friendly  to  me  in  her  heart. 

But  to  see  the  faces  of  the  people  !  While  I  had  been 
talking,  Old  Rogers  had  been  drinking  in  every  word. 
To  him  it  was  milk  and  strong  meat  in  one.-  But  now 
his  face  shone  with  a  father's  gratification  besides.  And 
Richard's  face  was  glowing  too.  Even  old  Brownrigg 
looked  with  a  curious  interest  upon  us,  I  thought. 

Meantime  Dr  Duncan  was  dancing  with  one  of  his 
own  patients,  old  Mrs  Trotter,  to  whose  wants  he  min- 
istered far  more  from  his  table  than  his  surgery.     I  have 


l8o  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

known  that  man,  hearing  of  a  case  of  want  from  hia 
servant,  send  the  fowl  he  was  about  to  dine  upon,  un- 
touched, to  those  whose  necessity  was  greater  than  his. 

And  Mr  Boulderstone  had  taken  out  old  Mrs  Rogers ; 
and  young  Brownrigg  had  taken  Mary^Weir.  Thomas 
Weir  did  not  dance  at  all,  but  looked  on  kindly. 

"Why  don't  you  dance,  Old  Rogers?"  I  said,  as  I 
placed  his  daughter  in  a  seat  beside  him. 

"  Did  your  honour  ever  see  an  elephant  go  up  the 
futtock-shrouds  ?" 

"  No.     I  never  did." 

*'  I  thought  you  must,  sir,  to  ask  me  why  I  don't  dance. 
You  won't  take  my  fun  ill,  sir  1  I  'm  an  old  man-o'-war's 
man,  you  know,  sir." 

"  I  should  have  thought,  Rogers,  that  you  would  have 
known  better  by  this  time,  than  make  such  an  apology 
to  me." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir.  An  old  man's  safe  with  you — 
or  a  young  lass,  either,  sir,"  he  added,  turning  with  a 
smile  to  his  daughter. 

I  turned,  and  addressed  Mr  Boulderstone. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Mr  Boulderstone,  for 
the  help  you  have  given  me  this  evening.  I  've  seen 
you  talking  to  everybody,  just  as  if  you  had  to  entertain 
them  all." 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  taken  too  much  upon  me.  But  the 
fact  is,  somehow  or  other,  I  don't  know  how,  I  got  :nto 
the  spirit  of  it." 

"  You  got  into  the  spirit  of  it  because  you  wanted  to 
help  me,  and  I  thank  you  heartily." 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  l8l 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  wasn't  a  time  to  mind  one's  peas 
and  cues  exactly.  And  really  it 's  wonderful  how  one 
gets  on  without  them.     I  hate  formality  myself." 

The  dear  fellow  was  the  most  formal  man  I  had  ever 
met 

"  Why  don't  you  dance,  Mr  Brownrigg?" 

"  Who  'd  care  to  dance  with  me,  sir  ]  I  don't  care  to 
dance  with  an  old  woman ;  and  a  young  woman  won't 
care  to  dance  with  me." 

"  I  '11  find  you  a  partner,  if  you  will  put  yourself  in 
my  hands." 

"  I  don't  mind  trusting  myself  to  you,  sir." 

So  I  led  him  to  Jane  Rogers.  She  stood  up  in  re- 
spectful awe  before  the  master  of  her  destiny.  There 
were  signs  of  calcitration  in  the  churchwarden,  when  he 
perceived  whither  I  was  leading  him.  But  when  he  saw 
the  girl  stand  trembling  before  him,  whether  it  was  that 
he  was  flattered  by  the  signs  of  his  own  power,  accept- 
ing them  as  homage,  or  that  his  hard  heart  actually 
softened  a  little,  I  cannot  tell,  but,  after  just  a  percept- 
ible hesitation,  he  said : 

"  Come  along,  my  lass,  and  let 's  have  n  hop  together." 

She  obeyed  very  sweetly. 

"  Don't  be  too  shy,"  I  whispered  to  her  as  she  passed 
me. 

And  the  churchwarden  danced  very  heartily  with  the 
lady's-maid. 

I  then  asked  him  to  take  her  into  the  house,  and  give 
her  something  to  eat  in  return  for  her  song.  He  yielded 
somewhat  awkwardly,  and  what  passed  between  them  1 


I82  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

do  not  know.  But  when  they  returned,  she  seemed  less 
frightened  at  him  than  when  ^e  heard  9ie  make  the 
proposal.  And  when  the  company  was  parting,  I  heard 
him  take  leave  of  her  with  the  words — 

"  Give  us  a  kiss,  my  girl,  and  let  bygones  be  bygones." 
Which  kiss  I  heard  with  delight.  For  had  I  not  been 
a  peacemaker  in  this  matter?  And  had  I  not  then  a 
right  to  feel  blessed  ? — But  the  understanding  was  brought 
about  simply  by  making  the  people  meet — compelling 
them,  as  it  were,  to  know  something  of  each  other  really. 
Hitherto  this  girl  had  been  a  mere  name,  or  phantom 
at  best,  to  her  lover  s  father ;  and  it  was  easy  for  him  to 
treat  her  as  such,  that  is,  as  a  mere  fancy  of  his  son's. 
The  idea  of  her  had  passed  through  his  mind ;  but  with 
what  vividness  any  idea,  notion,  or  conception  could  be 
present  to  him,  my  readers  must  judge  from  my  descrip- 
tion of  him.  So  that  obstinacy  was  a  ridiculously  easy 
accomplishment  to  him.  For  he  never  had  any  notion 
of  the  matter  to  which  he  was  opposed — only  of  that 
which  he  favoured.  It  is  very  easy  indeed  for  such 
people  to  stick  to  their  point 

But  I  took  care  that  we  should  have  dancing  in  mode 
ration.  It  would  not  do  for  people  either  to  get  weary 
with  recreation,  or  excited  with  what  was  not  worthy  of 
producing  such  an  effect.  Indeed  we  had  only  six  coun- 
try dances  during  the  evening.  That  was  all.  And 
between  the  dances  I  read  two  or  three  of  Wordsworth's 
ballads  to  them,  and  they  listened  even  with  more  m- 
terest  than  I  had  been  able  to  hope  for.  The  fact  was, 
tliat  the  happy  and  free  hearted  mood  they  were  in 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  I83 

'*  enabled  the  judgment"  I  wish  one  knew  always  by 
<vhat  musical  spell  to  produce  the  right  mood  for  receiv- 
ing and  reflecting  a  matter  as  it  really  is.  Every  true 
poem  carries  this  spell  with  it  in  its  own  music,  which  it 
sends  out  before  it  as  a  harbinger,  or  properly  a  her 
berger,  to  prepare  a  harbour  or  lodging  for  it.  But  then 
it  needs  a  quiet  mood  first  of  all,  to  let  this  music  bf» 
listened  to. 

For  I  thought  with  myself,  if  I  could  get  them  to  like 
poetry  and  beautiful  things  in  words,  it  would  not  only 
do  them  good,  but  help  them  to  see  what  is  in  the  Bible, 
and  therefore  to  love  it  more.  For  I  never  could  believe 
that  a  man  who  did  not  find  God  in  other  places  as  well 
as  in  the  Bible  ever  found  Him  there  at  all.  And  1 
always  thought,  that  to  find  God  in  other  books  enabled 
us  to  see  clearly  that  he  was  more  in  the  Bible  than  in 
any  other  book,  or  all  other  books  put  together. 

After  supper  we  had  a  little  more  singing.  And  to 
my  satisfaction  nothing  came  to  my  eyes  or  ears,  during 
the  whole  evening,  that»vvas  undignified  or  ill-bred.  Of 
course,  I  knew  that  many  of  them  must  have  two  beha- 
viours, and  that  now  they  were  on  their  good  behaviour. 
But  I  thought  the  oftener  such  were  put  on  their  good 
behaviour,  giving  them  the  opportunity  of  finding  out 
how  nice  it  was,  the  better.  It  might  make  them 
ashamed  of  the  other  at  last. 

There  were  many  little  bits  of  conversation  I  over- 
heard, which  I  should  like  to  give  my  readers;  but  I 
cannot  dwell  longer  upon  this  part  of  my  Annals.  Espe- 
cially I  should  have  enjoyed  recording  one  piece  of  talk, 


I&4.  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

in  which  Old  Rogers  was  evidently  trying  to  move  a 
more  directly  religious  feeling  in  the  mind  of  Dr  Dun 
:an.  I  thought  I  could  see  that  the  difficulty  with  the 
coble  old  gentleman  was  one  of  expression.  But  after 
all  the  old  foremast-man  was  a  seer  of  the  Kingdom; 
and  the  other,  with  all  his  refinement,  and  education, 
and  goodness  too,  was  but  a  child  in  it. 
'  Before  we  parted,  I  gave  to  each  of  my  guests  a  sheet 
of  Christmas  Carols,  gathered  from  the  older  portions  of 
our  literature.  For  most  of  the  modern  hymns  are  to  my 
mind  neither  milk  nor  meat — mere  wretched  imitations. 
There  were  a  few  curious  words  and  idioms  in  these,  but 
I  thought  it  better  to  leave  them  as  they  were ;  for  they 
might  set  them  inquiring,  and  give  me  an  opportunity 
of  interesting  them  further,  some  time  or  other,  in  the 
history  of  a  word ;  for,  in  their  ups  and  downs  of  for- 
tune, words  fare  very  much  like  human  beings. 
And  here  is  my  sheet  of  Carols  : — 

AN  HYMNE  OF  HEAVENLY  LOVE. 

« 

O  blessed  Well  of  Love  !     O  Floure  of  Grace  I 

O  glorious  Moming-Starre  !     O  Lampe  of  Light  I 

Most  lively  image  of  thy  Father's  face, 

Eternal  King  of  Glorie,  Lord  of  Might, 

Meeke  Lambe  of  God,  before  all  worlds  behight, 

How  can  we  Thee  requite  for  all  this  good  ? 

Or  what  can  prize  that  Thy  most  precious  blood  t 

Yet  nought  Thou  ask'st  in  lieu  of  all  this  love. 

But  love  of  us,  for  guerdon  of  Thy  paine  : 

Ay  me  !  what  can  us  lesse  than  that  behove  ? 

Had  He  required  life  of  us  againe. 

Had  it  beene  wrong  to  ask  His  owne  with  gainef 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  185 


He  gave  us  life,  He  it  restored  lost ; 
Then  life  were  least,  that  us  so  little  cost. 

But  He  our  life  hath  left  unto  us  free, 

Free  that  was  thr?ll,  and  blessed  that  was  baun'd| 

Ne  ought  demaunds  but  that  we  loving  bee, 

As  He  himselfe  hath  lov'd  us  afore-hand, 

And  bouhd  therto  with  an  etemall  band, 

Him  first  to  love  that  us  so  dearely  bought, 

And  next  our  brethren,  to  His  image  wrought. 

Him  first  to  love  great  right  and  reason  is, 
"Who  first  to  us  our  life  and  being  gave, 
And  after,  when  we  fared  had  amisse. 
Us  wretches  from  the  second  death  did  save ; 
And  last,  the  food  of  life,  which  now  we  hav^ 
Even  He  Himselfe,  in  His  dear  sacrament. 
To  feede  our  hungry  soules,  unto  us  lent. 

Then  next,  to  love  our  brethren,  that  were  made 
Of  that  selfe  mould,  and  that  self  Maker's  hand. 
That  we,  and  to  the  same  againe  shall  fade. 
Where  they  shall  have  like  heritage  of  land. 
However  here  on  higher  steps  we  stand. 
Which  also  were  with  self-same  price  redeemed 
That  we,  however  of  us  light  esteemed. 

Then  rouze  thy  selfe,  O  Earth !  out  of  thy  soyl^ 
In  which  thou  wallowest  like  to  filthy  swyne, 
And  doest  thy  mynd  in  durty  pleasures  moyle, 
UnmindfuU  of  that  dearest  Lord  of  thyne  ; 
Lift  up  to  Him  thy  heavie  clouded  eyne, 
That  thou  this  soveraine  bountie  mayst  behold, 
And  read,  through  love,  His  mercies  manifold. 

Beginne  from  first,  where  He  encradled  was 
In  simple  cratch,  wrapt  in  a  wad  of  hay, 
Betweene  the.  toylfull  oxe  and  humble  asse. 
And  in  what  rags,  and  in  how  base  array, 
The  glory  of  our  heavenly  riches  lay. 


l86  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


When  Him  the  silly  shepheards  came  to  see, 
Whom  greatest  princes  sought  on  lowest  knee. 

From  thence  reade  on  the  storle  of  His  life, 

His  humble  carriage,  His  unfaulty  wayes, 

His  cancred  foes,  His  fights,  His  toyle.  His  strife^ 

His  paines.  His  povertie.  His  sharpe  assayes, 

Through  which  He  past  His  miserable  dayes, 

Offending  none,  and  doing  good  to  all, 

Yet  being  malist  both  by  great  and  small. 

With  all  thy  hart,  with  all  thy  soule  and  mind. 
Thou  must  Him  love,  and  His  beheasts  embrace  ; 
All  other  loves,  with  which  the  world  doth  blind 
Weake  fancies,  and  stirre  up  affections  base, 
Thou  must  renounce  and  utterly  displace. 
And  give  thy  selfe  unto  Him  full  and  free. 
That  full  ai^d  freely  gave  Himselfe  to  thee. 

Then  shall  thy  ravisht  soul  inspired  bee 

With  heavenly  thoughts  farre  above  humane  skil, 

And  thy  bright  radiant  eyes  shall  plainly  see 

Th'  idee  of  His  pure  glorie  present  still 

Before  thy  face,  that  all  thy  spirits  shall  fill 

With  sweet  enragement  of  celestial  love. 

Kindled  through  sight  of  those  faire  things  above. 

Sfenses, 


NEW  PRINCE,  NEW  POMP. 

Behold  a  silly  tender  Babe, 

In  freezing  winter  night. 
In  homely  manger  trembling  lies  ; 

Alas  !  a  piteous  sight. 

The  inns  are  full,  no  man  will  yield 

This  little  Pilgrim  bed  ; 
But  forced  He  is  with  silly  beasts 

la  crib  to  shroud  His  head. 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY.  iS/ 

Despise  Him  not  for  lying  there^ 

First  what  He  is  inquire  ; 
An  orient  pearl  is  often  found 

In  depth  of  dirty  mire. 

Weigh  not  His  crib,  His  wooden  dish, 

Nor  beast  that  by  Him  feed  ; 
Weigh  not  his  mother's  poor  attire. 

Nor  Joseph's  simple  weed. 

This  stable  is  a  Prince's  court, 

The  crib  His  chair  of  state  ; 
The  beasts  are  parcel  of  His  pomp^ 

The  wooden  dish  His  plate. 

The  persons  in  that  poor  attire 

His  royal  liveries  wear ; 
The  Prince  himself  is  come  from  heaven— 

This  pomp  is  praised  there. 

With  joy  approach,  O  Christian  wight  1 

Do  homage  to  thy  King ; 
And  higlily  praise  this  humble  pomp 

Which  He  from  heaven  doth  bring, 

SOUTHWELU 


A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THREE  SHEPHERDS. 

I.  Where  is  this  blessed  Babe 
That  hath  made 
All  the  world  so  full  of  joy 
And  expectation; 
That  glorious  Boy 

That  crowns  each  nation 
With  a  triumphant  wreath  of  blessedness? 

S.  Where  should  He  be  but  in  the  throng, 
And  among 
His  angel-ministers,  that  sing 

And  take  wing 


l88  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Just  as  may  echo  to  His  voice, 

And  rejoice, 
When  wing  and  tongue  and  all 
May  so  procure  their  happiness? 

3.  But  He  hath  other  waiters  now. 

A  poor  cow. 
An  ox  and  mule  stand  and  behold, 

And  wonder 
That  a  stable  should  enfold 

Him  that  can  thunder. 
Chonu.    O  what  a  gracious  God  have  we ! 

How  good  I     How  great !     Even  as  our  misery. 

Jeremy  Taylor. 


A  SONG  OF  PRAISE  FOR  THE  BIRTH  OF  CHRIST. 

Away,  dark  thoughts;  awake,  my  joy j 

Awake,  mygloiy;  sing; 
Sing  songs  to  celebrate  the  birth 

Of  Jacobus  God  and  King. 
O  happy  night,  that  brought  forth  lights 

Which  makes  the  blind  to  see ! 
The  day  spring  from  on  high  came  down 

To  cheer  and  visit  thee. 

The  wakeful  shepherds,  near  their  flockfl^ 

Were  watchful  for  the  mom; 
But  better  news  from  heaven  was  brought^ 

Your  Saviour  Christ  is  born. 
In  BetJilem -iov/n  the  infant  lies, 

Within  a  place  obscure, 
O  little  Bethlem,  poor  in  wails. 

But  rich  in  furniture ! 

Since  heaven  is  now  come  down  to  earth. 

Hither  the  angels  fly! 
Hark,  how  the  heavenly  choir  doth  sing 

Glory  to  God  on  High  I 


MY    CHRISTMAS    PARTY,  189 


The  news  is  spread,  tbe  church  is  glad, 

Simeon,  o'ercome  with  joy, 
Sings  with  the  infant  in  his  arms, 

Now  lei  thy  servant  die. 

Wise  men  from  far  beheld  the  star. 
Which  was  their  faithful  guide. 

Until  it  pointed  forth  the  Babe, 
And  Him  they  glorified. 

Do  heaven  and  earth  rejoice  and  sing- 
Shall  we  our  Christ  deny? 

He's  born  for  us,  and  we  for  Him: 
Gltny  to  God  on  High, 

John  M/uiON. 


CHAPTER  XL 

SERMON  ON  GOD  AND  MAMMON. 

NEVER  asked  questions  about  the  private 
affairs  of  any  of  my  parishioners,  except  of 
themselves  individually  upon  occasion  of 
their  asking  me  for  advice,  and  some  conse- 
quent necessity  for  knowing  more  than  they  told  me. 
Hence,  I  believe,  they  became  the  more  willing  that  1 
should  know.  But  I  heard  a  good  many  things  from 
others,  notwithstanding,  for  I  could  not  be  constantly 
closing  the  lips  of  the  communicative  as  I  had  done 
those  of  Jane  Rogers.  And  amongst  other  things,  I 
learned  that  Miss  Oldcastle  went  most  Sundays  to  the 
neighbouring  town  of  Addicehead  to  church.  Now  I 
had  often  heard  of  the  ability  of  the  rector,  and  although 
I  had  never  met  him,  was  prepared  to  find  him  a  culti- 
vated, if  not  an  original  man.  Still,  if  I  must  be  honest, 
which  I  hope  T  must,  I  confess  that  I  heard  the  news 
with  a  pang,  in  analysing  which  I  discovered  the  chief 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  I9I 

component  to  be  jealousy.  It  was  no  use  asking  myself 
why  I  should  be  jealous  :  there  the  ugly  thing  was.  So 
I  went  and  told  God  I  was  ashamed,  and  begged  Him 
to  deliver  me  from  the  evil,  because  His  was  the  king- 
dom and  the  power  and  the  glory.  And  He  took  my 
part  against  myself,  for  He  waits  to  be  gracious.  Per- 
haps the  reader  may,  however,  suspect  a  deeper  cause 
for  this  feeling  (to  which  I  would  rather  not  give  the 
true  name  again)  than  a  merely  professional  one. 

But  there  was  one  stray  sheep  of  my  flock  that  appeared 
in  church  for  the  first  time  on  the  morning  of  Christmas 
Day — Catherine  Weir.  She  did  not  sit  beside  her  father, 
but  in  the  most  shadowy  corner  of  the  church — near  the 
organ  loft,  however.  She  could  have  seen  her  father  if 
she  had  looked  up,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  down  the  whole 
time,  and  never  even  lifted  them  to  me.  The  spot  on 
one  cheek  was  much  brighter  than  that  on  the  other, 
and  made  her  look  very  ill. 

I  prayed  to  our  God  to  grant  me  the  honour  of  speak- 
ing a  true  word  to  them  all;  which  honour  I  thought 
I  was  right  in  asking,  because  the  Lord  reproached  the 
Pharisees  for  not  seeking  the  honour  that  cometh  from 
God.  Perhaps  I  may  have  put  a  wrong  interpretation 
on  the  passage.  It  is,  however,  a  joy  to  think  that  He 
will  not  give  you  a  stone,  even  if  you  should  take  it  for 
a  loaf,  and  ask  for  iit  as  such.  Nor  is  He,  like  the 
scribes,  lying  in  wait  to  catch  poor  erring  men  in  their 
words  or  their  prayers,  however  mistaken  they  may  be. 

I  took  my  text  from  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  And 
as  the  magazine  for  which  these  Annals  were  first  written 


192  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

was  intended  chiefly  for  Sunday  reading,  I  wrote  my 
sermon  just  as  if  I  were  preaching  it  to  my  unseen 
readers  as  I  spoke  it  to  my  present  parishioners.  And 
here  it  is  now : 

The  Gospel  according  to  St  Matthew,  the  sixth  chapter, 
and  part  of  the  twenty-fourth  and  twenty-fifth  verses  : — 

*'  *  Ye  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.  Therefore  I 
say  unto  you,  Take  no  thought  for  your  life.'' 

"  When  the  Child  whose  birth  we  celebrate  with  glad 
hearts  this  day,  grew  up  to  be  a  man,  He  said  this.  Did 
He  mean  it  ? — He  never  said  what  He  did  not  mean. 
Did  He  mean  it  wholly  ? — He  meant  it  far  beyond  what 
the  words  could  convey.  He  meant  it  altogether  and 
entirely.  When  people  do  not  understand  what  the 
Lord  says,  when  it  seems  to  them  that  His  advice  is 
impracticable,  instead  of  searching  deeper  for  a  mean- 
ing which  will  be  evidently  true  and  wise,  they  comfort 
themselves  by  thinking  He  could  not  have  meant  it  alto- 
gether, and  so  leave  it.  Or  they  think  that  if  He  did 
mean  it,  He  could  not  expect  them  to  carry  it  out. 
And  in  the  fact  that  they  could  not  do  it  perfectly  if  they 
were  to  try,  they  take  refuge  from  the  duty  of  trying  to 
do  it  at  all ;  or,  oftener,  they  do  not  think  about  it  at 
all  as  anything  that  in  the  least  concerns  them.  The 
Son  of  our  "Father  in  heaven  ma}  have  become  a  child, 
may  have  led  the  one  life  which  belongs  to  every  man 
to  lead,  may  have  suffered  because  we  are  sinners,  may 
have  died  for  our  sakes,  doing  the  will  of  His  Father  in 
heaven,  and  yet  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  words 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  I93 


He  spoke  out  of  the  midst  of  His  true,  perfect  know 
ledge,  feeling,  and  action !  Is  it  not  strange  that  it 
should  be  so]  Let  it  not  be  so  with  us  this  day.  Let 
us  seek  to  find  out  what  our  Lord  means,  that  we  may 
do  it ;  trying  and  failing  and  trying  again — verily  to  be 
victorious  at  last — what  matter  when,  so  long  as  we  are 
trying,  and  so  coming  nearer  to  our  end  I 

"  Mammon,  you  know,  means  riches.  Now,  riches  are 
meant  to  be  the  slave — not  even  the  servant  of  man, 
and  not  to  be  the  master.  If  a  man  serve  his  own  ser- 
vant, or,  in  a  word,  any  one  who  has  no  just  claim  to  be 
his  master,  he  is  a  slave.  But  here  he  serves  his  own 
slave.  On  the  other  hand,  to  serve  God,  the  source  of 
our  being,  our  own  glorious  Father,  is  freedom;  in 
fact,  is  the  only  way  to  get  rid  of  all  bondage.  So  you 
see  plainly  enough  that  a  man  cannot  serve  God  and 
Mammon.  For  how  can  a  slave  of  his  own  slave  be 
the  servant  of  the  God  of  freedom,  of  Him  who  can 
have  no  one  to  serve  Him  but  a  free  man  %  His  service 
is  freedom.  Do  not,  I  pray  you,  make  any  confusion 
between  service  and  slavery.  To  serve  is  the  highest, 
noblest  calling  in  creation.  For  even  the  Son  of  man 
came  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister,  yea, 
with  Himself. 

"  But  how  can  a  man  serve  riches  ?  Why,  when  he 
says  to  riches,  *Ye  are  my  good.'  When  he  feels  he 
cannot  be  happy  without  them.  Wlien  he  puts  forth 
the  energies  of  his  nature  to  get  them.  When  he 
schemes  and  dreams  and  lies  awake  about  them.  When 
))e  will  not  give  to  his  neighbour  for  fear  of  becoming 


194  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

poor  himself.  When  he  wants  to  have  more,  and  to 
know  he  has  more,  than  he  can  need.  When  he  wants 
to  leave  money  behind  him,  not  for  the  sake  of  his 
children  or  relatives,  but  for  the  name  of  the  wealth. 
When  he  leaves  his  money,  not  to  those  who  need  it, 
even  of  his  relations,  but  to  those  who  are  rich  like 
himself,  making  them  yet  more  of  slaves  to  the  over- 
grown monster  they  worship  for  his  size.  When  he 
honours  those  who  have  money  because  they  have 
money,  irrespective  of  their  character;  or  when  he 
honours  in  a  rich  man  what  he  would  not  honour  in 
a  poor  man.  Then  is  he  the  slave  of  Mammon.  Still 
more  is  he  Mammon's  slave  when  his  devotion  to  his 
god  makes  him  oppressive  to  those  over  whom  his 
wealth  gives  him  power;  or  when  he  becomes  unjust 
in  order  to  add  to  his  stores. — How  will  it  be  with  such 
a  man  when  on  a  sudden  he  finds  that  the  world  has 
vanished,  and  he  is  alone  with  God?  Thore  lies  the 
body  in  which  he  used  to  live,  whose  poor  necessities 
first  made  money  of  value  to  him,  but  with  which  itself 
and  its  fictitious  value  are  both  left  behind.  He  cannot 
now  even  try  to  bribe  God  with  a  cheque.  The  angels 
will  not  bow  down  to  him  because  his  property,  as  set 
forth  in  his  will,  takes  five  or  six  figures  to  express  its 
amount.  It  makes  no  diflference  to  them  that  he  has 
lost  it,  though ;  for  they  never  respected  him.  And  the 
poor  souls  of  Hades,  who  envied  him  the  wealth  they 
had  lost  before,  rise  up  as  one  man  to  welcome  him,  not 
for  love  of  him — no  worshipper  of  Mammon  loves  an* 
other — but  rejoicing  in  the  mischief  that  has  befallen 


SKRMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  I95 

him,  and  saying,  'Art  thou  also  become  one  of  us?' 
And  Lazams  in  Abraham's  bosom,  however  sorry  he  may 
be  for  him,  however  grateful  he  may  feel  to  him  for  the 
broken  victuals  and  the  penny,  cannot  with  one  drop  ol 
the  water  of  Paradise  cool  that  man's  parched  tongue. 

"  Alas,  poor  Dives  !  poor  server  of  Mammon,  whose 
vile  god  can  pretend  to  deliver  him  no  longer !  Or 
rather,  for  the  blockish  god  never  pretended  anything 
— it  was  the  man's  own  doing — Alas  for  the  Mammon- 
worshipper!  he  can  no  longer  deceive  himself  in  his 
riches.  And  so  even  in  hell  he  is  something  nobler 
than  he  was  on  earth;  for  he  worships  his  riches  no 
longer.     He  cannot.     He  curses  them. 

"  Terrible  things  to  say  on  Christmas  Day  !  But  if 
Christmas  Day  teaches  us  anything,  it  teaches  us  to 
worship  God  and  not  Mammon ;  to  worship  spirit  and 
not  matter ;  to  worship  love  and  not  power. 

"Do  I  now  hear  any  of  my  friends  saying  in  their 
hearts :  Let  the  rich  take  that !  It  does  not  apply  to 
us.  We  are  poor  enough?  Ah,  my  friends,  I  have 
known  a  light-hearted,  liberal  rich  man  lose  his  riches, 
and  be  liberal  and  light-hearted  still.  I  knew  a  rich 
lady  once,  in  giving  a  large  gift  of  money  to  a  poor 
man,  say  apologetically,  *  I  hope  it  is  no  disgrace  in  me 
to  be  rich,  as  it  is  none  in  you  to  be  poor.'  It  is  not 
the  being  rich  that  is  wrong,  but  the  serving  of  riches, 
instead  of  making  them  serve  your  neighbour  and  your- 
self— your  neighbour  for  this  life,  yourself  for  the  ever- 
lasting habitations.  God  knows  it  is  hard  for  the  rich 
man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  but  the  rich 


196  ANNALS    OF    A   QUIKT    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

man  does  sometimes  enter  in;  for  God  hath  made  it 
possible.  And  the  greater  the  victory,  when  it  is  the 
rich  man  that  overcometh  the  world.  It  is  easier  for 
the  poor  man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom,  yet  many  of 
tlie  poor  have  failed  to  enter  in,  and  the  greater  is  the 
disgrace  of  their  defeat.  For  the  poor  have  more  done 
for  them,  as  far  as  outward  things  go,  in  the  way  of  sal- 
vation than  the  rich,  and  have  a  beatitude  all  to  them- 
selves besides.  For  in  the  making  of  this  world  as  a 
school  of  salvation,  the  poor,  as  the  necessary  majority, 
have  been  more  regarded  than  the  rich.  Do  not  think, 
my  poor  friend,  that  God  will  let  you  off.  He  lets  no- 
body off.  You,  too,  must  pay  the  uttermost  farthing. 
He  loves  you  too  well  to  let  you  serve  Mammon  a  whit 
more  than  your  rich  neighbour.  '  Serve  Mammon  ! '  do 
you  say  1  *  How  can  I  serve  Mammon  1  I  have  no 
Mammon  to  serve.' — Would  you  like  to  have  riches  a 
moment  sooner  than  God  gives  them  1.  Would  you  serve 
Mammon  if  you  had  him? — 'Who  can  tell?'  do  you 
answer  1  *  Leave  those  questions  till  I  am  tried.'  But 
is  there  no  bitterness  in  the  tone  of  that  response  1 
Does  it  not  mean,  *  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  I  have 
a  chance  of  trying  thatV — But  I  am  not  driven  to  such 
Questions  for  the  chance  of  convicting  some  of  you  of 
Mammon-worship.  Let  us  look  to  the  text  Read  it 
again. 

"  *  Ye  cannot  serve  Gcd  and  Mammon.  Therefore  I  say 
unto  you.  Take  no  thought  for  your  life.' 

'*  Why  are  you  to  take  no  thought  ?  Because  you 
cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.     Is  taking  thought, 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  I97 

chen,  a  serving  of  Mammon  1  Clearly. — Where  are  you 
now,  poor  man?  Brooding  over  the  frost?  Will  i{ 
harden  the  ground,  so  that  the  God  of  the  sparrows 
cannot  find  food  for  His  sons?  Where  are  you  now, 
poor  woman  ?  Sleepless  over  the  empty  cupboard  and 
to-morrow's  dinner?  '  It  is  because  we  have  no  bread  V 
do  you  answer?  Have  you  forgotten  the  five  loaves 
among  the  five  thousand,  and  the  fragments  that  were 
left  ?  Or  do  you  know  nothing  of  your  Father  in  heaven, 
who  clothes  the  lilies  and  feeds  the  birds?  O  ye  ot 
little  faith  ?  O  ye  poor-spirited  Mammon-worshippers ! 
who  worship  him  not  even  because  he  has  given  you 
anything,  but  in  the  hope  that  he  may  some  future  day 
benignantly  regard  you.  But  I  may  be  too  hard  upon 
you.  I  know  well  that  our  Father  sees  a  great  dift'erence 
between  the  man  who  is  anxious  about  his  children's 
dinner,  or  even  about  his  own,  and  the  man  who  is  only 
anxious  to  add  another  ten  thousand  to  his  much  goods 
laid  up  for  many  years.  But  you  ought  to  find  it  easy 
to  trust  in  God  for  such  a  matter  as  your  daily  bread, 
whereas  no  man  can  by  any  possibility  trust  in  God  for 
ten  thousand  pounds.  The  former  need  is  a  God- 
ordained  necessity ;  the  latter  desii"e  a  man-devised  appe- 
tite at  best — possibly  swinish  greed.  Tell  me,  do  you 
long  to  be  rich?  Then  you  worship  Mammon,  Tell 
me,  do  you  think  you  would  feel  safer  if  you  had  money 
in  the  bank  ?  Then  you  are  Mammon-worshippers ;  for 
you  would  tnist  the  barn  of  the  rich  man  rather  than  the 
God  who  makes  the  corn  to  grow.  Do  you  say — '  What 
shall  we  eat  ?  and  what  shall  we  drink  ?  and  wherewithal 


igS  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

shall  we  be  clothed  V  Are  ye  thus  of  doubtful  mind  {— 
Then  you  are  Mammon-worshippers. 

"  But  how  is  the  work  of  tlie  world  to  be  done  if  we 
take  no  thought? — We  are  nowhere  told  not  to  take 
thought.  We  musf  take  thought.  The  question  is — 
What  are  we  to  take  or  not  to  take  thought  about  1  By 
some  who  do  not  know  God,  little  work  would  be  done 
if  they  were  not  driven  by  anxiety  of  some  kind.  But 
you,  friends,  are  you  content  to  go  with  the  nations  of 
the  earth,  or  do  you  seek  a  better  way — ^^e  way  that  the 
Father  of  nations  would  have  you  walk  in  1 

"  W/ia^  then  are  we  to  take  thought  about?  Why, 
about  our  work.  What  are  we  not  to  take  thought 
about  ?  Why,  about  our  life.  The  one  is  our  business  : 
the  other  is  God's.  But  you  turn  it  the  other  way. 
You  take  no  thought  of  earnestness  about  the  doing  of 
your  duty ;  but  you  take  thought  of  care  lest  God  should 
not  fulfil  His  part  in  the  goings  on  of  the  world.  A 
iiiaij's  business  is  just  to  do  his  duty:  God  takes  upon 
Himself  the  feeding  and  the  clothing.  Will  the  work  of 
the  world  be  neglected  if  a  man  thinks  of  his  work,  his 
duty,  God's  will  to  be  done,  instead  of  what  he  is  to  eat, 
what  he  is  to  drink,  and  wherewithal  he  is  to  be  clothed  ? 
And  remember  all  the  needs  of  the  world  come  back  to 
these  three.  You  will  allow,  I  think,  that  the  work  of 
the  world  will  be  only  so  much  the  better  done ;  that 
the  very  means  of  procuring  the  raiment  or  the  food  will 
be  the  more  thoroughly  used.  What,  then,  is  the  only 
region  on  which  the  doubt  can  settle  1  Why,  God.  He 
alone  jemains  to  be  doubted.     Shall  it  be  so  with  you  ? 


SERMON    ON    GOD   AND   MAMMON.  I99 

Shall  the  Son  of  man,  the  baby  now  born,  and  for  evei 
with  us,  find  no  faith  in  you  ]  Ah,  my  poor  friend,  who 
canst  not  trust  in  God — I  was  going  to  say  you  deservt 
— Init  what  do  I  know  of  you  to  condemn  and  judge 
you  % — I  was  going  to  say,  you  deserve  to  be  treated  like 
the  child  who  frets  and  complains  because  his  mother 
holds  him  on  her  knee  and  feeds  him  mouthful  by 
mouthful  with  her  own  loving  hand.  I  meant — ^you 
deserve  to  have  your  own  way  for  a  while;  to  be  set 
down,  and  told  to  help  yourself,  and  see  what  it  will 
come  to ;  to  have  your  mother  open  the  cupboard  door 
for  you,  and  leave  you  alone  to  your  pleasures.  Alas  ! 
poor  child !  When  the  sweets  begin  to  pall,  and  the 
twilight  begins  to  come  duskily  into  the  chamber,  and 
you  look  about  all  at  once  and  see  no  mother,  how  will 
your  cupboard  comfort  you  thenl  Ask  it  for  a  smile, 
for  a  stroke  of  the  gentle  hand,  for  a  word  of  love.  All 
the  full-fed  Mammon  can  give  you  is  what  your  mother 
would  have  given  you  without  the  consequent  loathing, 
with  the  light  of  her  countenance  upon  it  all,  and  the 
arm  of  her  love  around  you. — And  this  is  what  God 
does  sometimes,  I  think,  with  the  Mammon-worshippers 
amongst  the  poor.  He  says  to  them.  Take  your  Mammon, 
and  see  what  he  is  worth.  Ah,  friends,  the  children  of 
God  can  never  be  happy  serving  other  than  Him.  The 
prodigal  might  fill  his  belly  with  riotous  living  or  with 
the  husks  that  the  swine  ate.  It  was  all  one,  so  long  as 
he  was  not  with  his  father.  His  soul  was  wretched.  So 
would  you  be  if  you  had  wealth,  for  I  fear  you  would 
only  be  worse  Mammon-woi  shippers  than  now,  and  might 


200  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

well  have  to  thank  God  for  the  misery  of  any  swine- 
trough  that  could  bring  you  to  your  senses. 

"  But  we  do  see  people  die  of  starvation  sometimes » 
— Yes.  But  if  you  did  your  work  in  God's  name,  Jind 
left  the  rest  to  Him,  that  would  not  trouble  you.  You 
would  say,  If  it  be  God's  will  that  I  should  starve,  I  can 
starve  as  well  as  another.  And  your  mind  would  be  at 
ease.  *  Thou  wilt  keep  him  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind 
is  stayed  upon  Thee,  because  he  trusteth  in  Thee.'  Of 
that  I  am  sure.  It  may  be  good  for  you  to  go  hungry 
and  bare-foot;  but  it  must  be  utter  death  to  have  no 
faith  in  God.  It  is  not,  however,  in  God's  way  of  things 
that  the  man  who  does  his  work  shall  not  live  by  it. 
We  do  not  know  why  here  and  there  a  man  may  be  left 
to  die  of  hunger,  but  I  do  believe  that  they  who  wait 
upon  the  Lord  shall  not  lack  any  good.  What  it  may 
be  good  to  deprive  a  man  of  till  he  knows  and  acknow- 
ledges whence  it  comes,  it  may  be  still  better  to  give 
him  when  he  has  learned  that  every  good  and  every  per- 
fect gift  is  from  above,  and  cometh  down  from  the  Father 
of  lights. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  a  man  who  just  minded  his 
duty  and  troubled  himself  about  nothing ;  who  did  his 
own  work  and  did  not  interfere  with  God's.  How  nobly 
he  would  work — working  not  for  reward,  but  because  it 
was  the  will  of  God !  How  happily  he  would  recei\  e 
his  food  and  clothing,  receiving  them  as  the  gifts  of 
God  !  What  peace  would  be  his  !  What  a  sober  gaiety  I 
How  hearty  and  infectious  his  laughter !  What  a  friend 
he  would  be !      How  sweet  his  sympathy !     And  bis 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON. 


mind  would  be  so  clear  he  would  understand  everything 
His  eye  being  single,  his  whole  body  would  be  full  of 
liglit.  No  fear  of  his  ever  doing  a  mean  thing.  He 
would  die  in  a  ditch  rather.  It  is  this  fear  of  want  that 
makes  men  do  mean  things.  They  are  afraid  to  part 
vnth  their  precious  lord — Mammon.  He  gives  no  safety 
against  such  a  fear.  One  of  the  richest  men  in  England 
is  haunted  with  the  dread  of  the  workhouse.  This  man 
whom  I  should  like  to  know,  would  be  sure  that  God 
would  have  him  liberal,  and  he  would  be  what  God 
would  have  him.  Riches  are  not  in  the  least  necessary 
to  that.  Witness  our  Lord's  admiration  of  the  poor 
widow  with  her  great  farthing. 

"  But  I  think  I  hear  my  troubled  friend  who  does  not 
love  money,  and  yet  cannot  trust  in  God  out  and  out, 
though  she  fain  would, — I  think  I  hear  her  say,  '  I  be- 
lieve I  could  trust  Him  for  myself,  or  at  least  I  should 
be  ready  to  dare  the  worst  for  His  sake ;  but  my  children 
— it  is  the  thought  of  my  children  that  is  too  much  for 
me.'  Ah,  woman  !  she  whom  the  Saviour  praised  so 
pleasedly,  was  one  who  trusted  Him  for  her  daughter. 
What  an  honour  she  had !  *  Be  it  unto  thee  even  as 
thou  wilt.'  Do  you  think  you  love  your  children  better 
than  He  who  made  them  1  Is  not  your  love  what  it  is 
because  He  put  it  into  your  heart  first  ?  Have  not  you 
ofcen  been  cross  with  them?  Sometimes  unjust  to  them? 
Whence  came  the  returning  love  that  rose  from  unknown 
depths  in  your  being,  and  swept  away  the  anger  and  the 
injustice]  You  did  not  create  that  love.  Probably  you 
were  not  good  enough  to  send  for  it  by  prayer.     But  if 


202  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

came.  God  sent  it.  He  makes  you  love  your  children ; 
be  sorry  when  you  have  been  cross  with  them ;  ashamed 
when  you  have  been  unjust  to  them ;  and  yet  you  won't 
trust  Him  to  give  them  food  and  clothes  !  Depend 
upon  it,  if  He  ever  refuses  to  give  them  food  and  clothes, 
and  you  knew  all  about  it,  the  why  and  the  wherefore, 
you  would  not  dare  to  give  them  food  or  clothes  either. 
He  loves  them  a  thousand  times  better  than  you  do — be 
sure  of  that — and  feels  for  their  sufferings  too,  when  He 
cannot  give  them  just  what  He  would  like  to  give  tliem 
— cannot  for  their  good,  I  mean. 

"  But  as  your  mistrust  will  go  further,  I  can  go  further 
to  meet  it.  You  will  say,  *  Ah  !  yes' — in  your  feeling,  I 
mean,  not  in  words, — you  will  say,  *  Ah  !  yes — food  and 
clothing  of  a  sort!  Enough  to  keep  life  in  and  too 
much  cold  out !  But  I  want  my  children  to  have  plenty 
of^<7<7//food,  and  «/r«?  clothes.' 

"  Faithless  mother !  Consider  the  birds  of  the  air. 
They  have  so  much  that  at  least  they  can  sing !  Con- 
sider the  lilies — they  were  red  lilies,  those.  Would  you 
not  trust  Him  who  delights  in  glorious  colours —  more  at 
least  than  you,  or  He  would  never  have  created  them 
and  made  us  to  delight  in  them?  I  do  not  say  that 
your  children  shall  be  clothed  in  scarlet  and  fine  linen ; 
but  if  not,  it  is  not  because  God  despises  scarlet  and 
fine  linen  or  does  not  love  your  children.  He  loves 
them,  I  say,  too  much  to  give  them  everything  all  at 
once.  But  He  would  make  them  such  that  they  may 
have  everything  without  being  the  worse,  and  with  being 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  203 

the  better  for  it.     And  if  you  cannot  trust  Him  yet,  it 
begins  to  be  a  shame,  I  think. 

"  It  has  been  well  said  that  no  man  ever  sank  undei 
the  burden  of  the  day.  It  is  when  to-morrow's  burden 
is  added  to  the  burden  of  to-day,  that  the  weight  is  more 
than  a  man  can  bear.  Never  load  yourselves  so,  my 
friends.  If  you  find  yourselves  so  loaded,  at  least  re- 
member this:  it  is  your  own  doing,  not  God's  He 
begs  you  to  leave  the  future  to  Him,  and  mind  the  pre- 
sent. What  more  or  what  else  could  He  do  to  take  the 
burden  off  you  1  Nothing  else  would  do  it.  Money  in 
the  bank  wouldn't  do  it.  He  cannot  do  to-morrow's 
business  for  you  beforehand  to  save  you  from  fear  about 
it.  That  would  derange  everything.  What  else  is  there 
but  to  tell  you  to  trust  in  Him,  irrespective  of  the  fact 
that  nothing  else  but  such  trust  can  put  our  heart  at 
peace,  from  the  very  nature  of  our  relation  to  Him  as 
well  as  the  fact  that  we  need  these  things.  We  think 
that  we  come  nearer  to  God  than  the  lower  animals  do 
by  our  foresight  But  there  is  another  side  to  it.  We 
are  like  to  Him  with  whom  there  is  no  past  or  future, 
with  whom  a  day  is  as  a  thousand  years,  and  a  thousand 
years  as  one  day,  when  we  live  with  large  bright  spiritual 
eyes,  doing  our  work  in  the  great  present,  leaving  both 
past  and  future  to  Him  to  whom  they  are  ever  present, 
and  fearing  nothing,  because  Pie  is  in  our  future,  as 
much  as  He  is  in  our  past,  as  much  as,  and  far  more 
than,  we  can  feel  Him  to  be  in  our  present.  Partakers 
thus  of  tlie  divine  nature,  resting  in  that  perfect  All-iu-aU 


204  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

in  whom  our  nature  is  eternal  too,  we  walk  without  fear, 
full  of  hope  and  courage  and  strength  to  do  His  will, 
waiting  for  the  endless  good  which  He  is  always  giving 
as  fast  as  He  can  get  us  able  to  take  it  in.  Would  not 
this  be  to  be  more  of  gods  than  Satan  promised  to  Eve  1 
To  live  carelessly -divine,  duty- doing,  fearless,  loving, 
self-forgetting  lives — is  not  that  more  than  to  know  both 
good  and  evil — lives  in  which  the  good,  like  Aaron's 
rod,  has  swallowed  up  the  evil,  and  turned  it  into  good  1 
For  pain  and  hunger  are  evils;  but  if  faith  in  God 
swallows  them  up,  do  they  not  so  turn  into  good?  I 
say  they  do.  And  I  am  glad  to  believe  that  I  am  not 
alone  in  my  parish  in  this  conviction.  I  have  never 
been  too  hungry,  but  I  have  had  trouble  which  I  would 
gladly  have  exchanged  for  hunger  and  cold  and  weari- 
ness. Some  of  you  have  known  hunger  and  cold  and 
weariness.  Do  you  not  join  with  me  to  say :  It  is  well, 
and  better  than  well — whatever  helps  us  to  know  the 
love  of  Him  who  is  our  God  ? 

"  But  there  /las  been  just  one  man  who  has  acted  thus. 
And  it  is  His  Spirit  in  our  hearts  that  makes  us  desire 
to  know  or  to  be  another  such — who  would  do  the  will 
of  God  for  God,  and  let  God  do  God's  will  for  Him. 
For  Hi ;  will  is  all.  And  this  rnan  is  the  baby  whose 
birth  we  celebrate  this  day.  Was  this  a  condition  to 
choose — that  of  a  baby — by  one  who  thought  it  part  of 
a  man's  high  calling  to  take  care  of  the  morrow  ?  Did 
He  not  thus  cast  the  whole  matter  at  once  upon  the 
hands  and  heart  of  His  Father?  Sufficient  unto  the 
baby's  day  is  the  need  thereof;   he  toils  not,  neither 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  20S 

does  he  spin,  and  yet  he  is  fed  and  clothed,  and  loved, 
and  rejoiced  in.  Do  you  remind  me  that  sometimes 
even  his  mother  forgets  him — a  mother,  most  likely,  to 
whose  self-indulgence  or  weakness  the  child  owes  his 
birth  as  hers  1  Ah !  but  he  is  not  therefore  forgotten, 
however  like  things  it  may  look  to  our  half-seeing  eyes, 
by  his  Father  in  heaven.  One  of  the  highest  benefits 
we  can  reap  from  understanding  the  way  of  God  with 
ourselves  is,  that  we  become  able  thus  to  trust  Him  for 
others  with  whom  we  do  not  understand  His  ways. 

"  But  let  us  look  at  what  will  be  more  easily  shown — 
how,  namely,  He  did  the  will  of  His  Father,  and  took 
no  thought  for  the  morrow  after  He  became  a  man. 
Remember  how  He  foi^sook  His  trade  when  the  time 
came  for  Him  to  preach.  Preaching  was  not  a  profes- 
sion then.  There  were  no  monasteries,  or  vicarages,  or 
stipends,  then.  Yet  witness  for  the  Father  the  garment 
woven  throughout ;  the  ministering  of  women ;  the 
purse  in  common !  Hard-working  men  and  rich  ladies 
were  ready  to  help  Him,  and  did  help  Him  with  all  that 
He  needed. — Did  He  then  never  want  1  Yes ;  once  at 
least — for  a  little  while  only. 

"  He  was  a- hungered  in  the  wilderness.  *  Make 
breai"!,'  said  Satan.  '  No,'  said  our  Lord. — He  could 
starve ,  but  He  could  not  eat  bread  that  His  Father  did 
not  give  Him,  even  though  He  could  make  it  Himself 
He  had  come  hither  to  be  tried.  But  when  the  victory 
was  secure,  lo  !  the  angels  brought  Him  food  from  His 
Father. — Which  was  better]  To  feed  Himself,  or  be 
fed  by  His  F:ither1    Judge  yourselves,  anxious  people. 


206  ANNALS    OF    A.    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

He  sought  the  kingdom  of  God  and  His  righteousness, 
and  the  bread  was  added  unto  Him. 

"  And  this  gives  me  occasion  to  remark  that  the  same 
truth  holds  with  regard  to  any  portion  of  the  future  as 
well  as  the  morrow.  It  is  a  principle,  not  a  command, 
or  an  encouragement,  or  a  promise  merely.  In  respect 
of  it  there  is  no  difference  between  next  day  and  next 
year,  next  hour  and  next  century.  You  will  see  at  once 
the  absurdity  of  taking  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  and 
taking  thought  for  next  year.  But  do  you  see  likewise 
that  it  is  equally  reasonable  to  trust  God  for  the  next 
moment,  and  equally  unreasonable  not  to  trust  Himi 
The  Lord  was  hungry  and  needed  food  now,  though  He 
could  still  go  without  for  a  while.  He  left  it  to  His 
Father.  And  so  He  told  His  disciples  to  do  when  they 
were  called  to  answer  before  judges  and  rulers.  *  Take 
no  thought.  It  shall  be  given  you  what  ye  shall  say.' 
You  have  a  disagreeable  duty  to  do  at  twelve  o'clock. 
Do  not  blacken  nine  and  ten  and  eleven,  and  all  be- 
tween, with  the  colour  of  twelve.  Do  the  work  of  each, 
and  reap  your  reward  in  peace.  So  when  the  dreaded 
moment  in  the  future  becomes  the  present,  you  shall 
meet  it  walking  in  the  light,  and  that  light  will  overcome 
its  darkness.  How  often  do  men  who  have  made  up 
their  minds  what  to  say  and  do  under  certain  expected 
circumstances,  forget  the  words  and  reverse  the  actions  ! 
The  best  preparation  is  the  present  well  seen  to,  the  last 
duty  done.  For  this  will  keep  the  eye  so  clear  and  the 
body  so  full  of  light  that  the  right  action  will  be  per- 
ceived at  once,  the  right  words  will  rush  from  the  heart 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  207 

to  the  lips,  and  the  man,  full  of  the  Spirit  of  God  be^ 
cause  he  cares  for  nothing  but  the  will  of  God,  will 
trample  on  the  evil  thing  in  love,  and  be  sent,  it  may 
be,  in  a  chariot  of  fire  to  the  presence  of  his  Father,  or 
stand  unmoved  amid  the  cruel  mockings  of  the  men  he 
loves. 

"  Do  you  feel  inclined  to  say  in  your  hearts  :  '  It  was 
easy  for  Him  to  take  no  thought,  for  He  had  the  matter 
in  His  own  hands'?'  But  observe,  there  is  nothing  very 
noble  in  a  man's  taking  no  thought  except  it  be  from 
faith.  If  there  were  no  God  to  take  thought  for  us, 
we  should  have  no  right  to  blame  any  one  for  taking 
thought.  You  may  fancy  the  Lord  had  His  own  power 
to  fall  back  upon.  But  that  would  have  been  to  Him 
just  the  one  dreadful  thing.  That  His  Father  should 
forget  Him  ! — no  power  in  Himself  could  make  up  for 
that.  He  feared  nothing  for  Himself;  and  never  once 
employed  His  divine  power  to  save  Him  from  His 
human  fate.  Let  God  do  that  for  Him  if  He  saw  fit. 
He  did  not  come  into  the  world  to  take  care  of  Him- 
self That  would  not  be  in  any  way  divine.  To  fall 
back  on  Himself,  God  failing  Him — how  could  that 
make  it  easy  for  Him  to  avoid  care?  The  very  idea 
would  be  torture.  That  would  be  to  declare  heaven 
void,  and  the  world  without  a  God.  He  would  not 
even  pray  to  His  Fatlier  for  what  He  knew  He  should 
have  if  He  did  ask  it.     He  would  just  wait  His  will. 

"  But  see  how  the  fact  of  His  own  power  adds  tenfold 
significance  to  the  fact  that  He  trusted  in  God.  We  see 
that  this  power  would  not  serve   His  need — His  need 


208  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

•act  being  to  be  fed  and  clothed,  but  to  be  one  with  the 
Father,  to  be  fed  by  His  hand,  clothed  by  His  care. 
This  was  what  the  Lord  wanted — and  we  need,  alas  1 
too  often  without  wanting  it.  He  never  once,  I  repeat, 
used  His  power  for  Himself.  That  was  not  his  business. 
He  did  not  care  about  it.  His  life  was  of  no  value  to 
Him  but  as  His  Father  cared  for  it.  God  M'ould  mind 
all  that  was  necessary  for  Him,  and  He  would  mind 
the  work  His  Father  had  given  Him  to  do.  And,  my 
friends,  this  is  just  the  one  secret  of  a  blessed  life,  the 
one  thing  every  man  comes  into  this  world  to  learn. 
With  what  authority  it  comes  to  us  from  the  lips  of  Him 
who  knew  all  about  it,  and  ever  did  as  He  said  ! 

"  Now  you  see  that  He  took  no  thought  for  the 
morrow.  And,  in  the  name  of  the  holy  child  Jesus,  I 
call  upon  you,  this  Christmas  day,  to  cast  care  to  the 
winds,  and  trust  in  God ;  to  receive  the  message  of  peace 
and  good  will  to  men ;  to  yield  yourselves  to  the  Spirit 
of  God,  that  you  may  be  taught  what  He  wants  you  to 
know ;  to  remember  that  the  one  gift  promised  without 
reserve  to  those  who  ask  it — the  one  gift  worth  having 
— the  gift  which  makes  all  other  gifts  a  thousand-fold  in 
value,  is  the  gift  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  spirit  of  the  child 
Jesus,  who  will  take  of  the  things  of  Jesus,  and  show 
them  to  you — make  you  understand  them,  that  is — so 
that  you  shall  see  them  to  be  true,  and  love  Him  with 
all  your  heart  and  soul,  and  your  neighbour  as  your- 
selves." 

And  here,  having  finished  my  sermon,  I  will  give  my 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  209 


reader  some  lines  with  which  he  may  not  be  acquainted, 
from  a  writer  of  the  Elizabethan  time.  I  had  meant  to 
introduce  them  into  my  sermon,  but  I  was  so  carried 
away  with  my  subject  that  I  forgot  them.  For  I  ahvays 
preached  extempore,  which  phrase  1  beg  my  reader  will 
not  misinterpret  as  meaning  on  the  spur  of  the  motnent,  or 
without  the  due  preparation  of  much  thought. 

"  O  man  !  thou  image  of  thy  Maker's  good, 
What  canst  thou  fear,  when  breathed  into  thy  blood 
His  Spirit  is  that  built  thee  ?     What  dull  sense 
Makes  thee  suspect,  in  need,  that  Providence 
Who  made  the  morning,  and  who  placed  the  light 
Guide  to  thy  labours  ;  who  called  up  the  night, 
And  bid  her  fall  upon  thee  like  sweet  showers. 
In  hollow  murmurs,  to  lock  up  thy  powers  ; 
Who  gave  thee  knowledge ;  who  so  trusted  thee 
To  let  thee  grow  so  near  Himself,  the  Tree  ? 
Must  He  then  be  distrusted?     Shall  His  frame 
Discourse  with  Him  why  thus  and  thus  I  am? 
He  made  the  Angels  thine,  thy  fellows  all ; 
Nay  even  thy  servants,  when  devotions  calL 
Oh  !  canst  thou  be  so  stupid  then,  so  dim. 
To  seek  a  saving*  influence,  and  lose  Him? 
Can  stars  protect  thee  ?     Or  can  poverty. 
Which  is  the  light  to  heaven,  put  out  His  eye? 
He  is  my  star ;  in  Him  all  truth  I  find. 
All  influence,  all  fate.     And  when  my  mind 
Is  furnished  with  His  fulness,  my  poor  story 
Shall  outlive  all  their  age,  and  all  their  glory. 
The  hand  of  danger  cannot  fall  amiss. 
When  I  know  what,  and  in  whose  power,  it  is, 
Nor  want,  the  curse  of  man,  shall  make  me  groan  x 
A  holy  hermit  is  a  mind  alone. 


Many,  in  those  days,  believed  in  astrology. 

O 


ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Affliction,  when  I  know  it,  is  but  this, 

A  deep  alloy  whereby  man  tougher  is 

To  bear  the  hammer ;  and  the  deeper  still, 

We  still  arise  more  image  of  His  will ; 

Sickness,  an  humorous  cloud  'twixt  us  and  light; 

And  death,  at  longest,  but  another  night." 


I  had  more  than  ordinary  attention  during  my  dis- 
course, at  one  point  in  which  I  saw  the  down-bent  head 
of  Catherine  Weir  sink  yet  lower  upon  her  hands.  Aftei 
a  moment,  however,  she  sat  more  erect  than  before, 
though  she  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  meet  mine.  I  need 
not  assure  my  reader  that  she  was  not  present  to  my 
mind  when  I  spoke  the  words  that  so  far  had  moved 
her.  Indeed,  had  I  thought  of  her,  I  could  not  have 
spoken  them. 

As  I  came  out  of  the  church,  my  people  crowded 
about  me  with  outstretched  hands  and  good  wishes. 
One  woman,  the  aged  wife  of  a  more  aged  labourer, 
who  could  not  get  near  me,  called  from  the  outskirts  of 
the  little  crowd — 

*'  May  the  Lord  come  and  see  ye  every  day,  sir.  And 
may  ye  never  know  the  hunger  and  cold  as  me  and 
Tomkins  has  come  through." 

"Amen  to  the  first  of  your  blessing,  Mrs  Tomkinn, 
and  hearty  thanks  to  you.  But  I  daren't  say  Amen  to 
the  other  part  of  it,  after  what  I  Ve  been  preaching,  you 
know." 

"  But  there  '11  be  no  harm  if  I  say  it  for  ye,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  for  God  will  give  me  what  is  good,  even  if  youi 
kind  heart  should  pray  against  it" 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON. 


"  Ah,  sir,  ye  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  hungry  and 
cold." 

"  Neither  shall  you  any  more,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  God  bless  ye,  sir.  But  we  're  pretty  tidy  just  in  ihe 
meantime." 

I  walked  home,  as  usual  on  Sunday  mornings,  by  the 
road.  It  was  a  lovely  day.  The  sun  shone  so  warm 
that  you  could  not  help  thinking  of  what  he  would  be 
able  to  do  before  long — draw  primroses  and  buttercups 
out  of  the  earth  by  force  of  sweet  persuasive  influences. 
But  in  the  shadows  lay  fine  webs  and  laces  of  ice,  so 
delicately  lovely  that  one  could  not  but  be  glad  of  the 
cold  that  made  the  water  able  to  please  itself  by  taking 
such  graceful  forms.  And  I  wondered  over  again  for 
the  hundredth  time  what  could  be  the  principle  which, 
in  the  wildest,  most  lawless,  fantastically  chaotic,  appar- 
ently capricious  work  of  nature,  always  kept  it  beautiful. 
The  beauty  of  holiness  must  be  at  the  heart  of  it  some- 
how, I  thought  Because  our  God  is  so  free  from  stain, 
so  loving,  so  unselfish,  so  good,  so  altogether  what  He 
wants  us  to  be,  so  holy,  therefore  all  His  works  declare 
Him  in  beauty ;  His  fingers  can  touch  nothing  but  to 
mould  it  into  loveliness ;  and  even  the  play  of  His  ele- 
»iients  is  in  grace  and  tenderness  of  form. 

And  thcK  I  thought  how  the  sun,  at  the  farthest  point 
from  us,  had  begun  to  come  back  towards  us ;  looked 
u[>on  us  with  a  hopeful  smile ;  was  like  the  Lord  when 
He  visited  His  people  as  a  little  one  of  themselves,  to 
grow  upon  the  earth  till  it  should  blossom  as  the  rose  in 
the  light  of  His  presence.     "  Ah !  Lord,"  I  said,  in  my 


212  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

heart,  "  draw  near  unto  Thy  people.  It  is  spring-time 
with  Thy  world,  but  yet  we  have  cold  winds  and  bittei 
hail,  and  pinched  voices  forbidding  them  that  follow 
Thee  and  follow  not  with  us.  Draw  nearer,  Sun  o( 
Righteousness,  and  make  the  trees  bourgeon,  and  the 
flowers  blossom,  and  the  voices  grow  mellow  and  glad, 
so  that  all  shall  join  in  praising  Thee,  and  find  thereby 
that  harmony  is  better  than  unison.  Let  it  be  summer, 
O  Lord,  if  it  ever  may  be  summer  in  this  court  of  the 
Gentiles.  But  Thou  hast  told  us  that  Thy  kingdom 
Cometh  within  us,  and  so  Thy  joy  must  come  within  us 
too.  Draw  nigh  then,  Lord,  to  those  to  whom  Thon 
wilt  draw  nigh ;  and  others  beholding  their  welfare  will 
seek  to  share  therein  too,  and  seeing  their  good  works 
will  glorify  their  Father  in  heaven." 

So  I  walked  home,  hoping  in  my  Saviour,  and  won- 
dering to  think  how  pleasant  I  had  found  it  to  be  His 
poor  servant  to  this  people.  Already  the  doubts  which 
had  filled  my  mind  on  that  first  evening  of  gloom, 
doubts  as  to  whether  I  had  any  right  to  the  priest's 
office,  had  utterly  vanished,  slain  by  the  effort  to  per- 
form the  priest's  duty.  I  never  thought  about  the  mat- 
ter now. — And  how  can  doubt  ever  be  fully  met  but  by 
action]  Try  your  theory;  try  your  hypothesis;  or  il  it 
is  not  worth  tiying,  give  it  up,  pull  it  down.  And  I 
hoped  that  if  ever  a  cloud  should  come  over  me  aganj 
however  dark  and  dismal  it  might  be,  I  might  be  able 
notwithstanding  to  rejoice  that  the  sun  was  shining  on 
others  though  not  on  me,  and  to  say  wich  all  my  heart 
to  my  Father  in  heaven,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  JIJ 

When  I  reached  my  own  study,  I  sat  down  by  a  blaz- 
ing fire,  and  poured  myself  out  a  glass  of  wine  ;  for  1 
had  to  go  out  again  to  see  some  of  my  poor  friends,  and 
wanted  some  luncheon  first. — It  is  a  great  thing  to  have 
the  greetings  of  the  universe  presented  in  fire  and  food. 
Let  me,  if  I  may,  be  ever  welcomed  to  my  room  in  win- 
ter by  a  glowing  hearth,  in  summer  by  a  vase  of  flowers  ; 
if  I  may  not,  let  me  then  think  how  nice  they  would  be, 
and  bury  myself  in  my  work.  I  do  not  think  that  the 
road  to  contentment  lies  in  despising  what  we  have  not 
got.  Let  us  acknowledge  all  good,  all  delight  that  the 
world  holds,  and  be  content  without  it.  But  this  we 
can  never  be  except  by  possessing  the  one  thing,  without 
which  I  do  not  merely  say  no  man  ought  to  be  content, 
but  no  man  can  be  content — the  Spirit  of  the  Father. 

If  any  young  people  read  my  little  chronicle,  will  they 
not  be  inclined  to  say,  "  The  vicar  has  already  given  us 
in  this  chapter  hardly  anything  but  a  long  sermon  ;  and 
it  is  too  bad  of  him  to  go  on  preaching  in  his  study  after 
we  saw  him  safe  out  of  the  pulpit'"?  Ah,  well !  just  one 
word,  and  I  drop  the  preaching  for  a  while.  My  word 
is  this :  I  may  speak  long-windedly,  and  even  incon- 
siderately as  regards  my  young  readers;  what  I  say 
may  fail  utterly  to  convey  what  I  mean;  I  \x\d:^  be 
actually  stupid  sometimes,  and  not  have  a  suspicion  of 
it ;  but  what  I  mean  is  true ;  and  if  you  do  not  know 
it  to  be  true  yet,  some  of  you  at  least  suspect  it  to  be 
true,  and  some  of  you  hope  it  is  true ;  and  when  you 
all  see  it  as  I  mean  it  and  as  you  can  take  it,  you  will 
rejoice  with  a  gladness  you  know  nothing  about  now. 


214  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

There,  I  have  done  for  a  little  while.  I  won't  pledge 
myself  for  more,  I  assure  you.  For  to  speak  about  such 
things  is  the  greatest  delight  of  my  age,  as  it  was  of  my 
early  manhood,  next  to  that  of  loving  God  and  my 
neighbour.  For  as  these  are  the  two  commandments 
of  life,  so  they  are  in  themselves  the  pleasures  of  life. 
But  there  I  am  at  it  again.  I  beg  your  pardon  now,  for 
I  have  already  inadvertently  broken  my  promise. 

I  had  allowed  myself  a  half-hour  before  the  fire  with 
my  glass  of  wine  and  piece  of  bread,  and  I  soon  fell 
into  a  dreamy  state  called  reverie,  which  I  fear  not  a 
few  mistake  for  thinking,  because  it  is  the  nearest  ap)- 
proach  they  ever  make  to  it.  And  in  this  reverie  I  kept 
staring  about  my  book-shelves. — I  am  an  old  man  now, 
and  you  do  not  know  my  name ;  and  if  you  should  ever 
find  it  out,  I  shall  very  soon  hide  it  under  some  daisies, 
I  hope,  and  so  escape ;  and  therefore  I  am  going  to  be 
egotistic  in  the  most  unpardonable  manner.  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  one  of  my  faults,  for  it  continues,  I  fear,  to 
be  one  of  my  faults  still,  as  it  certainly  was  at  the  period 
of  which  I  am  now  writing.  I  am  very  fond  of  books. 
Do  not  mistake  me.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  love  reading, 
I  hope  I  do.  That  is  no  fault — a  virtue  rather  than  a 
fault.  But,  as  the  old  meaning  of  the  word  fond  was 
foolish,  I  use  that  word :  I  am  foolishly  fond  of  the 
bodies  of  books  as  distinguished  from  their  souls,  or 
thought-element.  I  do  not  say  I  love  their  bodies  as 
divided  from  their  souls ;  I  do  not  say  I  should  let  a 
book  stand  upon  my  shelves  for  which  I  felt  no  respect, 
except  indeed  it  happened  to  be  useful  to  me  in  som? 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  215 

inferior  way.  But  I  delight  in  seeing  books  about  me, 
books  even  of  which  there  seems  to  be  no  prospect  thai 
I  shall  have  time  to  read  a  single  chapter  before  I  lay 
I  his  old  head  down  for  the  last  time.  Nay,  more  :  I 
confess  that  if  they  are  nicely  bound,  so  as  to  glow  and 
shine  in  such  a  fire-light  as  that  by  which  I  was  then 
sitting,  I  like  them  ever  so  much  the  better.  Nay,  more 
yet — and  this  comes  very  near  to  showing  myself  worse 
than  I  thought  I  was  when  I  began  to  tell  you  my  fault : 
there  are  books  upon  my  shelves  which  certainly  at  least 
would  not  occupy  the  place  of  honour  they  do  occupy, 
had  not  some  previous  owner  dressed  them  far  beyond 
their  worth,  making  modern  apples  of  Sodom  of  them. 
Yet  there  I  let  them  stay,  because  they  are  pleasant  to 
the  eye,  although  certainly  not  things  to  be  desired  to 
make  one  wise.  I  'could  say  a  great  deal  more  about 
the  matter,  pro  and  con^  but  it  would  be  worse  than  a 
sermon,  I  fear.  For  I  suspect  that  by  the  time  books, 
which  ought  to  be  loved  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them, 
of  one  sort  or  another,  come  to  be  loved  as  articles  of 
furniture,  the  mind  has  gone  through  a  process  more 
than  analogous  to  that  which  the  miser's  mind  goes 
through — namely,  that  of  passing  from  the  respect  of 
money  because  of  what  it  can  do,  to  the  love  of  money 
because  it  is  money.  I  have  not  yet  reached  the  furni- 
ture stage,  and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  shall.  I  would 
rather  burn  them  all.  Meantime,  I  think  one  safe- 
guard is  to  encourage  one's  friends  to  borrow  one's 
books—  not  to  offer  individual  books,  which  is  much 
the  same  as  offering  advice.     That  will  probably  take 


2l6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

some  of  the  shine  off  them,  and  put  a  few  thumb-marks 
in  them,  whicli  both  are  very  wholesome  towards  the 
arresting  of  the  furniture  declension.  For  my  part, 
thumb-marks  I  find  very  obnoxious — far  more  so  than 
the  spoiling  of  the  binding. — I  know  that  some  of  my 
readers,  who  have  had  sad  experience  of  the  sort,  will 
be  saying  in  themselves,  "  He  might  have  mentioned  a 
surer  antidote  resulting  from  this  measure,  than  either 
rubbed  Russia  or  dirty  g/ove-ma.rks  even — that  of  utter 
disappearance  and  irreparable  loss."  But  no ;  that  has 
seldom  happened  to  me — ^because  I  trust  my  pocket- 
book,  and  never  my  memory,  with  the  names  of  those 
to  whom  the  individual  books  are  committed. — There, 
then,  is  a  little  bit  of  practical  advice  in  both  directions 
for  young  book-lovers. 

Again  I  am  reminded  that  I  am  getting  old.  What 
digressions ! 

Gazing  about  on  my  treasures,  the  thought  suddenly 
struck  me  that  I  had  never  done  as  I  had  promised 
Judy ;  had  never  found  out  what  her  aunt's  name  meant 
in  Anglo-Saxon.  I  would  do  so  novv.  I  got  down  my 
dictionary,  and  soon  discovered  that  Ethelwyn  meant 
Home-joy,  or  Itiheritance. 

"  A  lovely  meaning,"  I  said  to  myself. 

And  then  I  went  off  into  another  reverie,  with  the 
composition  of  which  I  shall  not  trouble  my  reader;  and 
with  the  mention  of  which  I  had,  perhaps,  no  right  to 
occupy  the  fragment  of  his  time  spent  in  reading  it,  see- 
ing I  did  not  intend  to  tell  him  how  it  was  made  up.  1 
will  tell  him  something  else  instead. 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  21/ 

Several  families  had  asked  me  to  take  my  Christmas 
dinner  with  them  ;  but,  not  liking  to  be  thus  limited,  T 
had  answered  each  that  I  would  not,  if  they  wouUl 
excuse  me,  but  would  look  in  some  time  or  other  in  the 
course  of  the  evening. 

When  my  half-hour  was  out,  I  got  up  and  filled  my 
pockets  with  little  presents  for  my  poor  people,  and  set 
out  to  find  them  in  their  own  homes. 

I  was  variously  received,  but  unvaryingly  with  kind- 
ness ;  and  my  little  presents  were  accepted,  at  least  in 
most  instances,  with  a  gratitude  which  made  me  ashamed 
of  them  and  of  myself  too  for  a  few  moments.  Mrs 
Tomkins  looked  as  if  she  had  never  seen  so  much  tea 
together  before,  though  there  was  only  a  couple  of 
pounds  of  it ;  and  her  husband  received  a  pair  of  warm 
trousers  none  the  less  cordially  that  they  were  not  quite 
new,  the  fact  being  that  I  found  I  did  not  myself  need 
such  warm  clothing  this  winter  as  I  had  needed  the  last. 
I  did  not  dare  to  offer  Catherine  Weir  anything,  but  I 
gave  her  little  boy  a  box  of  water-colours — in  remem- 
brance of  the  first  time  I  saw  him,  though  I  said  nothing 
about  that.  His  mother  did  not  thank  me.  She  told 
little  Gerard  to  do  so,  however,  and  that  was  something. 
And,  indeed,  the  boy's  sweetness  would  have  been  enough 
for  both. 

Gerard — an  unusual  name  in  England ;  specially  not 
to  be  looked  for  in  the  class  to  which  she  belonged. 

When  I  reached  Old  Rogers's  cottage,  whither  I  carried 
a  few  yards  of  ribbon,  bought  by  myself,  I  assure  my 
Iftdy  friends,  with  the  special  object  that   the  coloui 


8l8  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

should  be  bright  enough  for  her  taste,  and  pure  enough 
of  its  kind  for  mine,  as  an  offering  to  the  good  dame, 
and  a  small  hymn-book,  in  which  were  some  hymns  of 
my  own  making,  for  the  good  man — 

I3ut  do  forgive  me,  fiiends,  for  actually  describing  my 
paltry  presents.  I  can  dare  to  assure  you  it  comes  from 
a  talking  old  man's  love  of  detail,  and  from  no  admira- 
tion of  such  small  givings  as  those.  You  see  I  trust 
you,  and  I  want  to  stand  well  with  you.  I  never  could 
be  indifferent  to  what  people  thought  of  me ;  though  I 
have  had  to  fight  hard  to  act  as  freely  as  if  I  were  in- 
different, especially  when  upon  occasion  I  found  myself 
approved  of.  It  is  more  difficult  to  walk  straight  then, 
than  when  men  are  all  against  you. — As  I  have  already 
broken  a  sentence,  which  will  not  be  past  setting  for  a 
while  yet,  I  may  as  well  go  on  to  say  here,  lest  any  one 
should  remark  that  a  clergyman  ought  not  to  show  off 
his  virtues,  nor  yet  teach  his  people  bad  habits  by  mak- 
ing them  look  out  for  presents — that  my  income  not 
only  seemed  to  me  disproportioned  to  the  amount  of 
labour  necessary  in  the  parish,  but  certainly  was  larger 
than  I  required  to  spend  upon  myself;  and  the  miserly 
passion  for  books  I  contrived  to  keep  a  good  deal  in 
check ;  for  I  had  no  fancy  for  gliding  devil-wards  for  the 
sake  of  a  few  books  after  all.  So  there  was  no  great 
virtue — ^was  there  1 — in  easing  my  heart  by  giving  a  {qw 
of  the  good  things  people  give  their  children  to  ray  poor 
friends,  whose  kind  reception  of  them  gave  me  as  much 
pleasure  as  the  gifts  gave  t||em.     They  valuec^  tl^e  kind- 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  2IQ 

ness  in  the  gift,  and  to  look  out  for  kindness  will  not 
make  people  greedy. 

When  I  reached  the  cottage,  I.  found  not  merely  Jane 
there  with  her  father  and  mother,  which  was  natural  on 
Christmas  Day,  seeing  there  seemed  to  be  no  company 
at  the  Hall,  but  my  little  Judy  as  well,  sitting  in  the  old 
woman's  arm-chair,  (not  that  she  used  it  much,  but  it 
was  called  hers,)  and  looking  as  much  at  home  as — as 
she  did  in  the  pond. 

"Why,  Judy  !"  I  exclaimed,  "you  here?" 

"  Yes,  Why  not,  Mr  Walton?"  she  returned,  holding 
out  her  hand  without  rising,  for  the  chair  was  such  a 
large  one,  and  she  was  set  so  far  back  in  it  that  the 
easier  way  was  not  to  rise,  which,  seeing  she  was  not 
greatly  overburdened  with  reverence,  was  not,  I  presume, 
a  cause  of  much  annoyance  to  the  little  damsel. 

"  I  know  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  see  a  Sandwich 
Islander  here.  Yet  I  might  express  surprise  if  I  did 
find  one,  might  I  not?" 

Judy  pretended  to  pout,  and  muttered  something 
about  comparing  her  to  a  cannibal.  But  Jane  took  up 
the  explanation. 

"  Mistress  had  to  go  off  to  London  with  her  mother 
to-day,  sir,  quite  unexpected,  on  some  banking  busi- 
ness, I  fancy,  from  what  I 1  beg  your  pardon,  sir. 

They're  gone  anyhow,  whatever  the  reason  may  be; 
and  so  I  came  to  see  my  father  and  mother,  and  Miss 
Judy  would  come  with  me." 

"  Siie  's  very  welcome,"  said  Mrs  Rogers. 


220  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  How  could  I  stay  up  there  with  nobody  but  Jacobi 
and  that  old  wolf  Sarah  ?  I  wouldn't  be  left  alone  witl? 
her  for  the  world.  She.'d  have  me  in  the  Bishop's  Pool 
before  you  came  back,  Janey  dear." 

"  That  wouldn't  matter  much  to  you,  would  it,  Judy?" 
I  said. 

"She's  a  white  wolf,  that  old  Sarah,  I  know?''  was 
all  her  answer. 

"  But  what  will  the  old  lady  say  when  she  finds  you 
brought  the  young  lady  here?"  asked  Mrs  Rogers. 

"  I  didn't  bring  her,  mother.     She  would  come." 

"  Besides,  she  '11  never  know  it,"  said  Judy. 

I  did  not  see  that  it  was  my  part  to  read  Judy  a 
lecture  here,  though  perhaps  I  might  have  done  so  if  I 
had  had  more  influence  over  her  than  I  had.  I  wanted 
to  gain  some  influence  over  her,  and  knew  that  the  way 
to  render  my  desire  impossible  of  fulfilment  would  be, 
to  find  fault  with  what  in  her  was  a  very  small  affair, 
whatever  it  might  be  in  one  who  had  been  properly 
brought  up.  Besides,  a  clergyman  is  not  a  moral  police- 
man.    So  I  took  no  notice  of  the  impropriety. 

"  Had  they  actually  to  go  away  on  the  morning  of 
Christmas  Day?"  I  said. 

*'  They  went  anyhow,  whether  they  had  to  do  it  or  not, 
sir,"  answered  Jane. 

"  Aunt  Ethelwyn  didn't  want  to  go  till  to-morrow," 
said  Judy.  "  She  said  something  about  coming  to  church 
this  morning.  But  grannie  said  they  must  go  at  once. 
It  was  very  cross  of  old  grannie.  Think  what  a  Christ- 
mas Day  to  me  without  auntie,  and  with  Sarah  !     But  J 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  221 

don't  mean  to  go  home  till  it 's  quite  dark.  I  mean  to 
stop  here  with  dear  Old  Rogers — that  I  do." 

The  latch  was  gently  lifted,  and  in  came  young 
Brownrigg.  So  I  thought  it  was  time  to  leave  my  best 
Christmas  wishes  and  take  myself  away.  Old  Rogers 
came  with  me  to  the  mill-stream  as  usual. 

"  It  'mazes  me,  sir,"  he  said,  "  a  gentleman  o'  your 
age  and  bringin'  up  to  know  all  that  you  tould  us  this 
mornin'.  It  'ud  be  no  wonder  now  for  a  man  like  me, 
come  to  be  the  shock  o'  corn  fully  ripe — leastways  yal- 
low  and  white  enough  outside  if  there  bean't  much  more 
than  milk  inside  it  yet, — it  'ud  be  no  mystery  for  a  man 
like  me  who'd  been  brought  up  hard,  and  tossed  about 
well-nigh  all  the  world  over — why,  there 's  scarce  a  wave 
on  the  Atlantic  but  knows  Old  Rogers  !" 

He  made  the  parenthesis  with  a  laugh,  and  began 
anew. 

"  It  'ud  be  a  shame  of  a  man  like  me  not  to  know  all 
as  you  said  this  mornin',  sir — leastways  I  don't  mean 
able  to  say  it  right  off  as  you  do,  sir ;  but  not  to  know 
it,  after  the  Almighty  had  been  at  such  pains  to  beat  it 
into  my  hard  head  just  to  trust  in  Him  and  fear  no- 
thing and  nobody — captain,  bosun,  devil,  sunk  rock,  or- 
breakers  ahead ;  but  just  to  mind  Him  and  stand  by  hal- 
liard, brace,  or  wheel,  or  hang  on  by  the  leeward  earing 
for  that  matter.  For,  you  see,  what  does  it  signify  whe- 
ther I  go  to  the  bottom  or  not,  so  long  as  I  didn't  skulk  1 
or  rather,"  and  here  the  old  man  took  off  his  hat  and 
looked  up,  "  so  long  as  the  Great  Captain  has  His  way, 
And  things  is  done  to  His  mind  1     But  how  ever  a  man 


222  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

like  you,  goin'  to  the  college,  and  readin'  books,  and 
warm  o'  nights,  and  never,  by  your  own  confession  this 
blessed  mornin',  sir,  knowin'  what  it  was  to  be  downright 
hungry,  how  ever  you  come  to  know  all  those  things,  is 
just  past  my  comprehension,  except  by  a  double  portion 
o'  the  Spirit,  sir.  And  that 's  the  way  I  account  for  it, 
sir." 

Although  I  knew  enough  about  a  ship  to  understand 
the  old  man,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  properly  repre- 
sented his  sea-phrase.  But  that  is  of  small  consequence, 
so  long  as  I  give  his  meaning.  And  a  meaning  can  oc- 
casionally be  even  better  conveyed  by  less  accurate  words. 

"  1  will  try  to  tell  you  how  I  come  to  know  about 
these  things  as  I  do,"  I  returned.  "  How  my  knowledge 
may  stand  the  test  of  further  and  severer  trials  remains 
to  be  seen.  But  if  I  should  fail  any  time,  old  friend,  and 
neither  trust  in  God  nor  do  my  duty,  what  I  have  said 
to  you  remains  true  all  the  same." 

"  That  it  do,  sir,  whoever  may  come  short" 

"  And  more  than  that :  failure  does  not  necessarily 
prove  any  one  to  be  a  hypocrite  of  no  faith.  He  may 
be  still  a  man  of  little  faith." 

"  Surely,  surely,  sir.  I  remember  once  that  my  faith 
broke  down — ^just  for  one  moment,  sir.  And  then  the 
Lord  gave  me  my  way  lest  I  should  blaspheme  Him  in 
tny  wicked  heart." 

"  How  was  that,  Rogers  1" 

**  A  scream  came  from  the  quarter-deck,  and  then  the 
cry :  *  Child  overboard  !'  There  was  but  one  child,  the 
captain's,  aboard.     I  was  sitting  just  aft  the  foremast. 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON,  223 

hemng-boning  a  split  in  a  spare  jib.  I  sprang  to  the 
bulwark,  and  there,  sure  enough,  was  the  child,  going 
fast  astam,  but  pretty  high  in  the  water.  How  it  hap- 
pened I  can't  think  to  this  day,  sir,  but  I  suppose  my 
needle,  in  the  hurry,  had  got  into  my  jacket,  so  as  to 
skewer  it  to  my  jersey,  for  we  were  far  south  of  the  line 
at  the  time,  sir,  and  it  was  cold.  However  that  may  be, 
as  soon  as  I  was  overboard,  which  you  may  be  sure 
didn't  want  the  time  I  take  telHn'  of  it,  I  found  that  I 
ought  to  ha'  pulled  my  jacket  off  afore  I  gave  the  bul- 
wark the  last  kick.  So  I  rose  on  the  water,  and  began 
to  pull  it  over  my  head — for  it  was  wide,  and  that  was 
the  easiest  way,  I  thought,  in  the  water.  But  when  I 
had  got  it  right  over  my  head,  there  it  stuck.  And  there 
was  I,  blind  as  a  Dutchman  in  a  fog,  and  in  as  strait  a 
jacket  as  ever  poor  wretch  in  Bedlam,  for  I  could  only 
just  wag  my  flippers.  Mr  Walton,  I  believe  I  swore — 
the  Lord  forgive  me ! — but  it  was  trying.  And  what  was 
far  worse,  for  one  moment  I  disbelieved  in  Him ;  and  I 
do  say  that 's  worse  than  swearing — in  a  hurry  I  mean. 
And  that  moment  something  went,  the  jacket  was  off, 
and  there  was  I  feelin'  as  if  every  stroke  I  took  was  as 
wide  as  the  mainyard.  I  had  no  time  to  repent,  only  to 
thank  God.  And  wasn't  it  more  than  I  deserved,  sir? 
Ah !  He  can  rebuke  a  man  for  unbelief  by  giving  him 
the  desire  of  his  heart.  And  that's  a  better  rebuke  than 
tying  him  up  to  the  gratings." 

"  And  did  you  save  the  child  1" 

«  Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  And  wasn't  the  captain  pleased  ?" 


224  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD, 

"  I  believe  he  was,  sir.  He  gave  me  a  glass  o'  grog, 
sir.  But  you  was  a  sayin'  of  something,  sir,  when  I  in- 
terrupted of  you." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  did  interrupt  me." 

"  I  'm  not  though,  sir.  I  Ve  lost  summat  I  '11  never 
hear  more." 

"  No,  you  shan't  lose  it.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  how 
I  think  I  came  to  understand  a  little  about  the  things  I 
was  talking  of  to-day." 

"  That 's  it,  sir;  that 's  it.     Well,  sir,  if  you  please  1" 

"  You  've  heard  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  haven't  you.  Old 
Rogers  1 " 

"  He  was  a  great  joker,  wasn't  he,  sir] " 

"  No,  no;  you're  thinking  of  Sydney  Smith,  Rogers." 

"  It  may  be,  sir.     I  am  an  ignorant  man." 

"  You  are  no  more  ignorant  than  you  ought  to  be. — 
But  it  is  time  you  should  know  him,  for  he  was  just  one 
of  your  sort.  I  will  come  down  some  evening  and  tell 
you  about  him." 

I  may  as  well  mention  here  that  this  led  to  week- 
evening  lectures  in  the  bam,  which,  with  the  help  of 
Weir  the  carpenter,  was  changed  into  a  comfortable 
room,  with  fixed  seats  all  round  it,  and  plenty  of  cane- 
chairs  besides — for  I  always  disliked  forms  in  the  middle 
of  a  room.  The  object  of  these  lectures  was  to  make 
the  people  acquainted  with  the  true  heroes  of  their 
own  country — men  great  in  themselves.  And  the  kind 
of  choice  I  made  may  be  seen  by  those  who  know  about 
both,  from  the  fact  that,  while  my  first  two  lectures  were 
on  Philip  Sidney,  I  did  not  give  one  whole  lecture  even 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  225 

to  Walter  Raleigh,  grand  fellow  as  he  was.  I  wanted 
chiefly  to  set  forth  the  men  that  could  rule  themselves, 
first  of  all,  after  a  noble  fashion.  But  I  have  not  finished 
these  lectures  yet,  for  I  never  wished  to  confine  them 
to  the  English  heroes ;  I  am  going  on  still,  old  man  as 
I  am — not  however  without  retracing  passed  ground 
sometimes,  for  a  new  generation  has  come  up  since  I 
came  here,  and  there  is  a  new  one  behind  coming  up 
now  which  I  may  be  honoured  to  present  in  its  turn  to 
some  of  this  grand  company — this  cloud  of  witnesses  to 
the  truth  in  our  own  and  other  lands,  some  of  whom 
subdued  kingdoms,  and  others  were  tortured  to  death, 
for  the  same  cause  and  with  the  same  result. 

"  Meantime,"  I  went  on,  "  I  only  want  to  tell  you 
one  little  thing  he  says  in  a  letter  to  a  younger  brother 
whom  he  wanted  to  turn  out  as  fine  a  fellow  as  possible. 
It  is  about  horses,  or  rather,  riding — for  Sir  Philip  was 
the  best  horseman  in  Europe  in  his  day,  as,  indeed,  all 
things  taken  together,  he  seems  to  have  really  been  the 
most  accomplished  man  generally  of  his  time  in  the 
world.     Writing  to  this  brother  he  says — " 

I  could  not  repeat  the  words  exactly  to  Old  Rogers, 
but  I  think  it  better  to  copy  them  exactly,  in  writing 
this  account  of  our  tall  : 

"At  horsemanship,  when  you  exercise  it,  read  Crison 
Ckiudio,  and  a  book  that  is  called  La  Gloria  deP  Cavallo, 
withal  that  you  may  join  the  thorough  contemplation  of 
it  with  the  exercise ;  and  so  shall  you  profit  more  in  a 
month  than  others  in  a  year." 

"  I  think  I  see  what  you  mean,  sir.     I  had  got  to 


226  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

learn  it  all  without  book,  as  it  were,  though  you  know  I 
had  my  old  Bible,  that  my  mother  gave  me,  and  without 
that  I  should  not  have  learned  it  at  all." 

"  I  only  mean  it  comparatively,  you  know.  You  have 
had  more  of  the  practice,  and  I  more  of  the  theory. 
]^ut  if  we  had  not  both  had  both,  we  should  neither  of 
us  have  known  anything  about  the  matter.  I  never  was 
content  without  trying  at  least  to  understand  things ;  and 
if  they  are  practical  things,  and  you  try  to  practise  them 
at  the  same  time  as  far  as  you  do  understand  them,  there 
is  no  end  to  the  way  in  which  the  one  lights  up  the  other. 
I  suppose  that  is  how,  without  your  experience,  I  have 
more  to  say  about  such  things  than  you  could  expect. 
You  know  besides  that  a  small  matter  in  which  a  prin- 
ciple is  involved  will  reveal  the  principle,  if  attended  to, 
just  as  well  as  a  great  one  containing  the  same  principle. 
The  only  difference,  and  that  a  most  important  one,  is 
that,  though  I  've  got  my  clay  and  my  straw  together, 
and  they  stick  pretty  well  as  yet,  my  brick,  after  all,  is 
not  half  so  well  baked  as  yours,  old  friend,  and  it  may 
crumble  away  yet,  though  I  hope  not." 

"  I  pray  God  to  make  both  our  bricks  into  stones  of 
the  New  Jerusalem,  sir.  I  think  I  understand  you  quite 
well.  To  know  about  a  thing  is  of  no  use,  except  you 
do  it.  Besides,  as  I  found  out  when  I  went  to  sea,  you 
never  can  know  a  thing  till  you  do  do  it,  though  I  thought 
I  had  a  tidy  fancy  about  some  things  beforehand.  It 's 
better  not  to  be  quite  sure  that  all  your  seams  are 
caulked,  and  so  to  keep  a  look-out  on  the  bilge-pump  j 
isn't  it,  sir  r' 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  227 


During  the  most  of  this  conversation,  we  were  stand- 
ing by  the  mill-water,  half  frozen  over.  The  ice  from 
both  sides  came  towards  the  middle,  leaving  an  empty 
space  between,  along  which  the  dark  water  showed 
itself,  huriying  away,  as  if  in  fear  of  its  life  from  the 
while  death  of  the  frost.  The  wheel  stood  motionless, 
and  the  drip  from  the  thatch  of  the  mill  over  it  ir 
the  sun,  had  frozen  in  the  shadow  into  icicles,  which 
hung  in  long  spikes  from  the  spokes  and  the  floats, 
making  the  wheel — soft  green  and  mossy  when  it  revolved 
in  the  gentle  sun-mingled  summer-water — look  like  its 
own  gray  skeleton  now.  The  sun  was  getting  low,  and 
I  should  want  all  my  time  to  see  my  other  friends  before 
dinner,  for  I  would  not  willingly  offend  Mrs  Pearson  on 
Christmas  Day  by  being  late,  especially  as  I  guessed 
she  was  using  extraordinary  skill  to  prepare  me  a  more 
than  comfortable  meal. 

"  I  must  go,  Old  Rogers,"  I  said ;  "  but  I  will  leave 
you  something  to  think  about  till  we  meet  again.  Find 
out  why  our  Lord  was  so  much  displeased  with  the 
disciples,  whom  He  knew  to  be  ignorant  men,  for  not 
knowing  what  He  meant  when  He  warned  them  against 
the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees.  I  want  to  know  what  you 
think  about  it.  You  '11  find  the  story  told  both  in  the 
sixteenth  chapter  of  St  Matthew  and  the  eighth  of  St 
Mark." 

"  Well,  sir,  1 11  try  ;  that  is,  if  you  will  tell  me  what 
you  think  about  it  afterwards,  so  as  to  put  me  right,  if 
I  'm  wrong." 

"  Of  course  I  will,  if  I  can  find  out  an  explanatloD 


228  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

to  satisfy  me.  But  it  is  not  at  all  clear  to  me  now.  In 
fact,  I  do  not  see  the  connecting  links  of  our  Lord's 
logic  in  the  rebuke  He  gives  them." 

"  How  am  I  to  find  out  then,  sir — knowing  nothing 
of  logic  at  all  ? "  said  the  old  man,  his  rough  worn  face 
summered  over  with  his  child-like  smile. 

"  There  are  many  things  which  a  little  learning,  while 
it  cannot  really  hide  them,  may  make  you  less  ready  to 
see  all  at  once,"  I  answered,  shaking  hands  with  Old 
Rogers,  and  then  springing  across  the  brook  with  my 
carpet-bag  in  my  hand. 

By  the  time  I  had  got  through  the  rest  of  my  calls,  the 
fogs  were  rising  from  the  streams  and  the  meadows  to 
close  in  upon  my  first  Christmas  Day  in  my  own  parish. 
How  much  happier  I  was  than  when  I  came  such  a  few ' 
months  before  !  The  only  pang  I  felt  that  day  was  as  I 
passed  the  monsters  on  the  gate  leading  to  Oldcastle 
Hall.  Should  I  be  honoured  to  help  only  the  poor  of 
the  flock  ]  Was  I  to  do  nothing  for  the  rich,  for  whom 
it  is,  and  has  been,  and  doubtless  will  be  so  hard  to  enter 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  t  And  it  seemed  to  me  at 
the  moment  that  the  world  must  be  made  for  the  poor  : 
they  had  so  much  more  done  for  them  to  enable  them  to 
inherit  it  than  the  rich  had. — To  these  people  at  the 
Hall,  I  did  not  seem  acceptable.  I  might  in  time  do 
something  with  Judy,  but  the  old  lady  was  still  so  dread- 
fully repulsive  to  me  that  it  troubled  my  conscience  to 
feel  how  I  disliked  her.  Mr  Stoddar:  seemed  nothing 
more  than  a  dilettante  in  religion,  as  well  as  in  the  arts 
and  sciences — music  always  excepted;  while  for  Miss 


SERMON    ON    GOD    AND    MAMMON.  22q 

Oldcastle,  I  simply  did  not  understand  her  yet.  And 
''  she  was  so  beautiful !  I  thought  her  more  beautiful 
every  time  I  saw  her.  But  I  never  appeared  to  make 
the  least  progress  towards  any  real  acquaintance  with  he» 
thoughts  and  feelings. — It  seemed  to  me,  I  say,  for  a 
moment,  coming  from  the  houses  of  the  warm-hearted 
poor,  as  if  the  rich  had  not  quite  fair  play,  as  it  were — as 
if  they  were  sent  into  the  world  chiefly  for  the  sake- of 
the  cultivation  of  the  virtues  of  the  poor,  and  without 
much  chance  for  the  cultivation  of  their  own.  I  knew 
better  than  this  you  know,  my  reader ;  but  the  thought 
came,  as  thoughts  will  come  sometimes.  It  vanished  the 
moment  I  sought  to  lay  hands  upon  it,  as  if  it  knew  quite 
well  it  had  no  business  there.  But  certainly  I  did  be- 
lieve that  it  was  more  like  the  truth  to  say  the  world  was 
made  for  the  poor  than  to  say  that  it  was  made  for  the 
rich.  And  therefore  I  longed  the  more  to  do  something 
for  these  whom  I  considered  the  rich  of  my  flock ;  for  it 
was  dreadful  to  think  of  their  being  poor  inside  instead 
of  outside. 

Perhaps  my  reader  will  say,  and  say  with  justice,  that 
I  ought  to  have  been  as  anxious  about  poor  Fanner 
Brownrigg  as  about  the  beautiful  lady.  But  the  farmer 
had  given  me  good  reason  to  hope  some  progress  in  him 
after  the  way  he  had  given  in  about  Jane  Rogers.  Posi- 
tively I  had  caught  his  eye  during  the  sermon  that  very 
day.  And,  besides — but  I  will  not  be  a  hypocrite ;  and 
seeing  I  did  not  certainly  take  the  same  interest  in  Mr 
Brownrigg,  I  will  at  least  be  honest  and  confess  it.  As 
far  as  regards  the  discharge  of  my  duties,  I  trust  I  should 


230  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

/lave  behaved  impartially  had  the  necessity  for  any  choict 
arisen.  But  my  feelings  were  not  quite  under  my  own 
control.  And  we  are  nowhere  told  to  love  everybody 
alike,  only  to  love  every  one  who  comes  within  our  reach 
as  ourselves. 

I  wonder  whether  my  old  friend  Dr  Duncan  was  right 
He  had  served  on  shore  in  Egypt  under  General  Aber- 
crombie,  and  had  of  course,  after  the  fighting  was  over 
on  each  of  the  several  occasions — the  French  being 
always  repulsed  —  exercised  his  office  amongst  the 
wounded  left  on  the  field  of  battle. — "  I  do  not  know," 
he  said,  "  whether  I  did  right  or  not ;  but  I  always  took 
the  man  I  came  to  first — French  or  English." — I  onlj 
know  that  my  heart  did  not  wait  for  the  opinion  of  my 
head  on  the  matter.  I  loved  the  old  man  the  more  that 
he  did  as  he  did.  But  as  a  question  of  casuistry,  I  am 
doubtful  about  its  answer. 

This  digression  is,  I  fear,  unpardonable. 

I  made  Mrs  Pearson  sit  down  with  me  to  dinner,  for 
Christmas  Day  was  not  one  to  dine  alone  upon.  And  I 
have  ever  since  had  my  servants  to  dine  with  me  on 
Christmas  Day. 

Then  I  went  out  again,  and  made  another  round  of 
visits,  coming  in  for  a  glass  of  wine  at  one  table,  an 
orange  at  another,  and  a  hot  chestnut  at  a  third.  Those 
whom  I  could  not  see  that  day,  I  saw  on  the  following 
days  between  it  and  the  new  year.  And  so  ended  my 
Christmas  holiday  with  my  people. 

But  there  is  one  little  incident  which  I  ought  to  relate 


s» 


SERMON    ON    GOD   AND    MAMMON.  23I 

before  I  close  this  chapter,  and  which  I  am  ashamed  of 
having  so  nearly  forgotten. 

When  we  had  finished  our  dinner,  and  I  was  sitting 
alone  drinking  a  class  of  claret  before  going  out  again, 
Mrs  Pearson  came  in  and  told  me  that  little  Gerard 
Weir  wanted  to  see  me.  I  asked  her  to  show  him  -in ; 
and  the  little  fellow  entered,  looking  very  shy,  and  cling- 
ing first  to  the  door  and  then  to  the  wall. 

"  Come,  my  dear  boy,"  I  said,  "  and  sit  down  by  me." 

He  came  directly  and  stood  before  me. 

*'  Would  you  like  a  little  wine  and  water?"  I  said;  for 
unhappily  there  was  no  dessert,  Mrs  Pearson  knowing 
that  I  never  eat  such  things. 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir;  I  never  tasted  wine." 

I  did  not  press  him  to  take  it. 

"  Please,  sir,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  putting  his 
hand  in  his  pocket,  "  mother  gave  me  some  goodies,  and 
I  kept  them  till  I  saw  you  come  back,  and  here  they  are, 
sir." 

Does  any  reader  doubt  what  I  did  or  said  upon  this  ? 

I  said,  "  Thank  you,  my  darling,"  and  I  ate  them  up 
every  one  of  them,  that  he  might  see  me  eat  them  before 
he  left  the  house.     And  the  dear  child  went  off  radiant. 

If  anybody  cannot  understand  why  I  did  so,  I  beg 
him  to  consider  the  matter.  If  then  he  cannot  come  to 
a  conclusion  concerning  it,  I  doubt  if  any  explanation  of 
mine  would  greatly  subserve  his  enlightenment.  Mean- 
time, I  am  forcibly  restraining  myself  from  yielding  to 
the  temptation  to  set  forth  my  reasons,  which  would  re- 


232  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

suit  in  a  half-hour's  sermon  on  the  Jewish  dispensation, 
including  the  burnt  offering,  and  the  wave  and  heave 
offerings,  with  an  application  to  the  ignorant  nurses  and 
mothers  of  English  babies,  who  do  the  best  they  can  to 
make  original  sin  an  actual  fact  by  training  children  down 
in  the  way  they  should  not  go. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

THE  AVENUE. 

T  will  not  appear  strange  that  I  should  lingei 
so  long  upon  the  first  few  months  of  my 
association  with  a  people  who,  now  that  I 
am  an  old  man,  look  to  me  like  my  own 
children.  For  those  who  were  then  older  than  myself 
are  now  "  old  dwellers  in  those  high  countries"  where 
there  is  no  age,  only  wisdom ;  and  I  shall  soon  go  to 
them.  How  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  my  Old  Rogers  again, 
who,  as  he  taught  me  upon  earth,  will  teach  me  yet 
more,  I  thank  my  God,  in  heaven  !  But  I  must  not  let 
the  reverie  which  always  gathers  about  the  feather-end 
of  my  pen  the  moment  I  take  it  up  to  write  these  re- 
collections, interfere  with  the  work  before  me. 

After  this  Christmas-tide,  I  found  myself  in  closer 
relationship  to  my  parishioners.  No  doubt  I  was  always 
in  danger  of  giving  unknown  oftence  to  those  who  were 
ready  to  fancy  that  I  neglected  them,  and  did  not  dis* 


234  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


tribute  vay  favours  equally.  But  as  I  never  took  offence, 
the  offence  I  gave  was  easily  got  rid  of.  A  clergyman, 
of  all  naen,  should  be  slow  to  take  offence,  for  if  he  does, 
he  will  never  be  free  or  strong  to  reprove  sin.  And  i: 
must  sometimes  be  his  duty  to  speak  severely  to  those, 
especially  the  good,  who  are  turning  their  faces  the 
wrong  way.  It  is  of  little  use  to  reprove  the  sinner,  but 
it  is  worth  while  sometimes  to  reprove  those  who  have  a 
regard  for  righteousness,  however  imperfect  they  may  be. 
"  Reprove  not  a  scomer,  lest  he  hate  thee ;  rebuke  a 
wise  man,  and  he  will  love  thee." 

But  I  took  great  care  about  interfering;  though  I 
would  interfere  upon  request  —  not  always,  however, 
upon  the  side  whence  the  request  came,  and  more 
seldom  still  upon  either  side.  The  clergyman  must 
never  be  a  partisan.  When  our  Lord  was  requested 
to  act  as  umpire  between  two  brothers.  He  refused. 
But  He  spoke  and  said,  "  Take  heed,  and  beware  of 
covetousness."  Now,  though  the  best  of  men  is  un- 
worthy to  loose  the  latchet  of  His  shoe,  yet  the  servant 
must  be  as  his  Master.  Ah  me !  while  I  write  it,  I 
remember  that  the  sinful  woman  might  yet  do  as  she 
would  with  His  sacred  feet  I  bethink  me :  Desert 
may  not  touch  His  shoc:-tie  :  Love  may  kiss  His  feet. 

I  visited,  of  course,  at  the  Hall,  as  at  the  farmhouses 
in  tilt  country,  and  the  cottages  in  the  village.  I  did 
not  come  to  like  Mrs  Oldcastle  better.  And  there  was 
one  woman  in  the  house  whom  I  disliked  still  more : 
that  Sarah  whom  Judy  had  called  in  my  hearing  a  white 
wol£     Her  face  was  yet  whiter  than  that  of  her  mistress, 


THE    AVENUE.  23* 


only  it  was  not  smooth  like  hers ;  for  its  whiteness  came 
a]L)parently  from  the  small-pox,  which  had  so  thickened 
tlie  skin  that  no  blood,  if  she  had  any,  could  shine 
through.  I  seldom  saw  her — only,  indeed,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  now  and  then  as  I  passed  through  the 
house. 

Nor  did  I  make  much  progress  with  Mr  Stoddart. 
He  had  always  something  friendly  to  say,  and  often 
some  theosophical  theory  to  bring  forward,  which,  I 
must  add,  never  seemed  to  me  to  mean,  or,  at  least,  to 
reveal,  anything.  He  was  a  great  reader  of  mystical 
books,  and  yet  the  man's  nature  seemed  cold.  It  was 
sunshiny,  but  not  sunny.  His  intellect  was  rather  a 
lambent  flame  than  a  genial  warmth.  He  could  make 
things,  but  he  could  not  grow  anything.  A.nd  when  I 
came  to  see  that  he  had  had  more  than  any  one  else  to 
do  with  the  education  of  Miss  Oldcastle,  I  understood 
her  a  little  better,  and  saw  that  her  so-called  e-ducation 
had  been  in  a  great  measure  re-pression — of  a  negative 
sort,  no  doubt,  but  not  therefore  the  less  mischievous. 
For  to  teach  speculation  instead  of  devotion,  mysticism 
instead  of  love,  word  instead  of  deed,  is  surely  ruinously 
repressive  to  the  nature  that  is  meant  for  sunbright 
activity  both  of  heart  and  hand.  My  chief  perplexity 
continued  to  be  how  he  could  play  the  organ  as  he  did. 

My  reader  will  think  that  I  am  always  coming  round 
to  Miss  Oldcastle ;  but  if  he  does,  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
began,  I  say,  to  understand  her  a  little  better.  She 
seemed  to  me  always  like  one  walking  in  a  "  watery 
sunbeam,"  without  knowing  that  it  was  but  the  wintry 


«36  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

pledge  of  a  summer  sun  at  hand.  She  took  it,  or  was 
ttying  to  take  it,  for  the  sunhght ;  trying  to  make  herself 
feel  all  the  glory  people  said  was  in  the  light,  instead  of 
making  haste  towards  the  perfect  day.  I  found  after- 
wards that  several  things  had  combined  to  bring  about 
this  condition  ;  and  I  know  she  will  forgive  me,  should 
1,  for  the  sake  of  others,  endeavour  to  make  it  under- 
stood by  and  by. 

I  have  not  much  more  to  tell  my  readers  about  this 
winter.  As  out  of  a  whole  changeful  season  only  one 
day,  or,  it  may  be,  but  one  moment  in  which  the  time 
seemed  to  burst  into  its  own  blossom,  will  cling  to  the 
memory ;  so  of  the  various  interviews  with  my  friends, 
and  the  whole  flow  of  the  current  of  my  life,  during  that 
winter,  notliing  more  of  nature  or  human  na.ure  occurs 
to  me  worth  recording.  I  will  pass  on  to  the  summer 
season  as  rapidly  as  I  may,  though  the  early  spring  will 
detain  me  with  the  relation  of  just  a  single  incident. 

I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Hall  to  see  Mr  Stoddart  I 
wanted  to  ask  him  whether  something  could  not  be  done 
beyond  his  exquisite  playing  to  rouse  the  sense  of  music 
in  my  people.  I  believed  that  nothing  helps  you  so 
much  to  feel  as  the  taking  of  what  share  may,  from  the 
nature  of  the  thing,  be  possible  to  you ;  because,  for  one 
reason,  in  order  to  feel,  it  is  necessary  that  the  mind 
should  rest  upon  the  matter,  whatever  it  is.  The  poorest 
success,  provided  the  attempt  has  been  genuine,  will 
enable  one  to  enter  into  any  art  ten  times  better  than 
before.  Now  I  had,  I  confess,  little  hope  of  moving 
Mr  Stoddart  in  the  matter ;  but  if  I  should  succeed,  ] 


THE    AVENUE.  237 


thought  it  would  do  himself  more  good  to  mingle  with 
his  humble  fellows  in  the  attempt  to  do  them  a  trifle  oi 
good,  than  the  opening  of  any  number  of  intellectual 
windows  towards  the  circumambient  truth. 

It  was  just  beginning  to  grow  dusk.  The  wind  was 
blustering  in  gusts  among  the  trees,  swaying  them  sud- 
denly and  fiercely  like  a  keen  passion,  now  sweeping 
them  all  one  way  as  if  the  multitude  of  tops  would  break 
loose  and  rush  away  like  a  wild  river,  and  now  subsiding 
as  suddenly,  and  allowing  them  to  recover  themselves 
and  stand  upright,  with  tones  and  motions  of  indignant 
expostulation.  There  was  just  one  cold  bar  of  light  in 
the  west,  and  the  east  was  one  gray  mass,  while  over- 
head the  stars  were  twinkling.  The  grass  and  all  the 
ground  about  the  trees  were  very  wet.  The  time  seemed 
more  dreary  somehow  than  the  winter.  Rigour  was 
past,  and  tenderness  had  not  come.  For  the  wind  was 
cold  without  being  keen,  and  bursting  from  the  trees 
every  now  and  then  with  a  roar  as  of  a  sea  breaking  on 
distant  sands,  whirled  about  me  as  if  it  wanted  me  to  go 
and  join  in  its  fierce  play. 

Suddenly  I  saw,  to  my  amazement,  in  a  walk  that 
ran  alongside  of  the  avenue,  Miss  Oldcastle  struggling 
against  the  wind,  which  blew  straight  down  the  path 
upon  her.  The  cause  of  my  amazement  Avas  twofold. 
First,  I  had  supposed  her  with  her  mother  in  London, 
whither  their  journeys  had  been  not  infrequent  since 
Christmas-tide ;  and  next — why  should  she  be  fighting 
with  the  wind,  so  far  from  the  house,  with  only  a  shawl 
drawn  over  her  head  ] 


238  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

The  reader  may  wonder  how  I  should  know  her  in 
this  attire  in  the  dusk,  and  where  there  was  not  the 
smallest  probability  of  finding  her.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
I  did  recognise  her  at  once ;  and  passing  between  two 
great  tree-trunks,  and  through  an  opening  in  some  under- 
wood, was  by  her  side  in  a  moment.  But  the  noise  of 
the  wind  had  prevented  her  from  hearing  my  approach, 
and  when  I  uttered  her  name,  she  started  violently, 
and,  turning,  drew  herself  up  very  haughtily,  in  part, 
I  presume,  to  hide  her  tremor. — She  was  always  a  little 
haughty  with  me,  I  must  acknowledge.  Could  there  have 
been  anything  in  my  address,  however  unconscious  of 
it  I  was,  that  made  her  fear  I  was  ready  to  become  in- 
trusive? Or  might  it  not  be  that,  hearing  of  my  footing 
with  my  parishioners  generally,  she  was  prepared  to 
resent  any  assumption  of  clerical  familiarity  with  her; 
and  so,  in  my  behaviour,  any  poor  innocent  '*  bush  was 
supposed  a  bear."  For  I  need  not  tell  my  reader  that 
nothing  was  farther  from  my  intention,  even  with  the 
lowliest  of  my  flock,  than  to  presume  upon  my  position 
as  clergyman.  I  think  they  all  gave  me  the  relation  I 
occupied  towards  them  personally. — But  I  had  never 
seen  her  look  so  haughty  as  now.  If  I  hid  been  watch- 
ing her  very  thoughts  she  could  hardly  have  looked  more 
indignant 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  distressed ;  "  I  have 
startled  you  dreadfully." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  she  replied,  but  without  moving, 
and  still  with  a  curve  in  her  form  like  the  neck  of  a 
flayed  horse. 


THE    AVENUE.  239 


I  thought  it  better  to  leave  apology,  which  was  evi- 
dently disagreeable  to  her,  and  speak  of  indifferent 
things. 

"  I  was  on  my  way  to  call  on  Mr  Stoddart,"  I  said. 

"  You  will  find  him  at  home,  I  believe." 

"  I  fancied  you  and  Mrs  Oldcastle  in  London." 

"  We  returned  yesterday." 

Still  she  stood  as  before.  I  made  a  movement  in  the 
direction  of  the  house.  She  seemed  as  if  she  would 
walk  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  May  I  not  walk  with  you  to  the  house  1 " 

"  I  am  not  going  in  just  yet." 

"  Are  you  protected  enough  for  sucn  a  night  1 " 

"  I  enjoy  the  wind."  * 

I  bowed  and  walked  on  ;  for  what  else  could  I  do  ? 

I  cannot  say  that  I  enjoyed  leaving  her  behind  me  in 
the  gathering  dark,  the  wind  blowing  her  about  with  no 
more  reverence  than  if  she  had  been  a  bush  of  privet. 
Nor  was  it  with  a  light  heart  that  I  bore  her  repulse  as 
I  slowly  climbed  the  hill  to  the  house.  However,  a 
little  personal  mortification  is  wholesome  —  though  I 
cannot  say  either  that  I  derived  much  consolation  from 
the  reflection. 

Sarah  opened  the  glass  door,  her  black,  glossy,  rest- 
less eyes  looking  out  of  her  white  face  from  under  gray 
eyebrows.  I  knew  at  once  by  her  look  beyond  me  that 
s!ie  had  expected  to  find  me  accompanied  by  her  young 
mistress.  I  did  not  volunteer  any  information,  as  my 
reader  may  suppose. 

I  found,  as  I  had  feared,  that,  although  Mr  -Stodf'art 


240  ANNALS    OF    A   QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

seemed  to  listen  with  some  mterest  to  what  I  said,  I 
^ould  not  bring  him  to  the  point  of  making  any  prac- 
tical suggestion,  or  of  responding  to  one  made  by  me ; 
and  I  left  him  with  the  conviction  that  he  would  do 
nothing  to  help  me.  Yet  during  the  whole  of  our  inter- 
view he  had  not  opposed  a  single  word  I  said.  He  was 
like  clay  too  much  softened  with  water  to  keep  the  form 
into  which  it  has  been  modelled.  He  would  take  somt 
kind  of  form  easily,  and  lose  it  yet  more  easily.  I  did 
not  show  all  my  dissatisfaction,  however,  for  that  would 
only  have  estranged  us ;  and  it  is  not  required,  nay,  it 
may  be  wrong,  to  show  all  you  feel  or  think :  what  is 
required  of  us  is,  not  to  show  what  we  do  not  feel  or 
think  ;  for  that  is  to  be  false. 

I  left  the.  house  in  a  gloomy  mood.  I  know  I  ought' 
to  have  looked  up  to  God  and  said  :  "  These  things  do 
not  reach  to  Thee,  my  Father.  Thou  art  ever  the  same ; 
and  I  rise  above  my  small  as  well  as  my  great  troubles 
by  remembering  Thy  peace,  and  Thy  unchangeable 
Godhood  to  me  and  all  Thy  creatures."  But  I  did  not 
come  to  myself  all  at  once.  The  thought  of  God  had 
not  come,  though  it  was  pretty  sure  to  come  before  I 
got  home.  I  was  brooding  over  the  littleness  of  all  I 
could  do;  and  feeling  that  sickness  which  sometimes 
will  overtake  a  man  in  the  midst  of  the  work  he  likes 
best,  when  the  unpleasant  parts  of  it  crowd  upon  him, 
and  his  own  efforts,  especially  those  made  from  the  will 
without  sustaining  impulse,  come  back  upon  him  with  a 
feeling  of  unreality,  decay,  and  bitterness,  as  if  he  had 
been  unnatural  and  untrue,  and  putting  himself  in  false 


THE    AVENUE.  24I 


relations  by  false  efforts  for  good.  I  know  this  all  came 
from  selfishness — thinking  about  myself  instead  of  about 
God  and  my  neighbour.  But  so  it  was. — And  so  I  was 
walking  down  the  avenue,  where  it  was  now  very  dark, 
with  my  head  bent  to  the  ground,  when  I  in  my  turn 
started  at  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice,  and  looking 
,  up,  saw  by  the  starlight  the  dim  form  of  Miss  Oldcastle 
standing  before  me. 

She  spoke  first 

"  Mr  Walton,  I  was  very  rude  to  you.  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"  Indeed,  I  did  not  think  so.  I  only  thought  what  a 
blundering  awkward  fellow  I  was  to  startle  you  as  I  did. 
You  have  to  forgive  nae." 

"  I  fancy" — and  here  I  know  she  smiled,  though  how 
I  know  r  do  not  know — *'  I  fancy  I  have  made  that 
even,"  she  said,  pleasantly ;  "  for  you  must  confess  I 
startled  you  now." 

"  You  did ;  but  it  was  in  a  very  different  way.  I 
annoyed  you  with  my  rudeness.  You  only  scattered  a 
swarm  of  bats  that  kept  flapping  their  skinny  wings  in 
my  face." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1  There  are  no  bats  at  this 
time  of  the  year." 

"  Not  outside.  In  *  winter  and  rough  weather '  they 
creep  inside,  you  know." 

"  Ah !  I  ought  to  understand  you.  But  I  did  not 
think  you  were  ever  like  that.  I  thought  you  were  too 
^ood." 

<*  I  wish  I  were.     I  hope  to  be  some  day.     I  am  not 


242  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

yet,  anyhow.  And  I  thank  you  for  driving  the  bats 
away  in  the  meantime." 

"  You  make  me  the  more  ashamed  of  myself  to  think 
that  perhaps  my  rudeness  had  a  share  in  bringing  them. 
— Yours  is  no  doubt  thankless  labour  sometimes." 

She  seemed  to  make  the  last  remark  just  to  prevent 
the  conversation  from  returning  to  her  as  its  subject. 
And  now  all  the  bright  portions  of  my  work  came  up 
before  me. 

"You  are  quite  mistaken  in  that,  Miss  Oldcastle. 
On  the  contrary,  the  thanks  I  get  are  far  more  than 
commensurate  with  the  labour.  Of  course  one  meets 
with  a  disappointment  sometimes,  but  that  is  only  when 
they  don't  know  what  you  mean.  -wAnd  how  should  they 
know  what  you  mean  till  they  are  different  themselves  ] 
— ^You  remember  what  Wordsworth  says  on  this  very 
subject  in  his  poem  of  Simon  Lee  1 " — 

"  I  do  not  know  anything  of  Wordsworth." 

•* '  I  've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning ; 
Alas !  the  gratitude  of  men 

Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning.' " 

**  I  do  not  quite  see  what  he  means.'* 

"  May  I  recommend  you  to  think  about  it  ?  You 
will  be  sure  to  find  it  out  for  yourself,  and  that  will  be 
ten  times  more  satisfactory  than  if  I  were  to  explain  it  to 
you.     And,  besides,  you  will  never  forget  it,  if  you  do." 

"  Will  you  repeat  the  lines  again  1 " 

I  did  so. 

^11  this  time  the  wind  had  been  stilL     Now  it  rose 


THE    AVENUE.  243 


with  a  slow  gush  in  the  trees.  Was  it  fancy?  Or,  as 
the  wind  moved  the  shrubbery,  did  I  see  a  white  face  1 
And  could  it  be  the  White  Wolf,  as  J  udy  called  her  1 

I  spoke  aloud  : 

"  But  it  is  cruel  to  keep  you  standing  here  in  such  a 
night.  You  must  be  a  real  lover  of  nature  to  walk  in 
the  dark  wind." 

"  I  like  it.     Good  night." 

So  we  parted.  I  gazed  into  the  darkness  after  her, 
though  she  disappeared  at  the  distance  of  a  yard  or 
two ;  and  would  have  stood  longer  had  I  not  still  sus- 
pected the  proximity  of  Judy's  Wolf,  which  made  me  turn 
and  go  home,  regardless  now  of  Mr  Stoddart's  doughiness. 

I  met  Miss  Oldcastle  several  times  before  the  summer, 
but  her  old  manner  remained,  or  rather  had  returned,  for 
there  had  been  nothing  of  it  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  in 
that  interview,  if  interview  it  could  be  called  where 
neither  could  see  more  than  the  other's  outline. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

YOUNG  WEIR. 

Y  slow  degrees  the  summer  bloomed.  Green 
^  came  instead  of  white ;  rainbows  instead  of 
icicles.  The  grounds  about  the  Hall  seemed 
the  incarnation  of  a  summer  which  had  taken 
years  to  ripen  to  its  perfection.  The  very  grass  seemed 
to  have  aged  into  perfect  youth  in  that  "  haunt  of  ancient 
peace ;"  for  surely  nowhere  else  was  such  thick,  delicate- 
bladed,  delicate-coloured  grass  to  be  seen.  Gnarled  old 
trees  of  may  stood  like  altars  of  smoking  perfume,  or 
each  like  one  million-petalled  flower  of  upheaved  white- 
ness— or  of  tender  rosiness,  as  if  the  snow  which  had 
covered  it  in  winter  had  sunk  in  and  gathered  warmth 
from  the  life  of  the  tree,  and  now  crept  out  again  to 
adorn  the  summer.  The  long  loops  of  the  laburnum 
hung  heavy  with  gold  towards  the  sod  below ;  and  the 
air  was  full  of  the  fragrance  of  the  young  leaves  of  the 
limes.     Down  in  the  valley  below,  the  daisies  shone  in 


YOUNG    WEIR.  245 


all  the  meadows,  varied  with  the  buttercup  and  the 
celandine ;  while  in  damp  places  grew  large  pimpernels, 
and  along  the  sides  of  the  river,  the  meadow-sweet  stood 
amongst  the  reeds  at  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  breath- 
ing out  the  odours  of  dreamful  sleep.  The  clumsy  pol- 
lards were  each  one  mass  of  undivided  green.  The  mill 
wheel  had  regained  its  knotty  look,  with  its  moss  and  its 
dip  and  drip,  as  it  yielded  to  the  slow  water,  which  would 
have  let  it  alone,  but  that  there  was  no  other  way  out  of 
the  land  to  the  sea. 

I  used  now  to  wander  about  in  the  fields  and  woods, 
with  a  book  in  my  hand,  at  which  I  often  did  not  look 
the  whole  day,  and  which  yet  I  liked  to  have  with  me 
And  I  seemed  somehow  to  come  back  with  most  upon 
tliose  days  in  which  I  did  not  read.  In  this  manner  I 
prepared  almost  all  my  sermons  that  summer.  But, 
although  I  prepared  them  thus  in  the  open  country,  I 
had  another  custom,  which  perhaps  may  appear  strange 
to  some,  before  I  preached  them.  This  was,  to  spend 
the  Saturday  evening,  not  in  my  study,  but  in  the  church. 
This  custom  of  mine  was  known  to  the  sexton  and  his 
wife,  and  the  church  was  always  clean  and  ready  for  me 
after  about  mid-day,  so  that  I  could  be  alone  there  as 
soon  as  I  pleased.  It  would  take  more  space  than  my 
limits  will  afford  to  explain  thoroughly  why  I  liked  to  do 
this.  But  I  will  venture  to  attempt  a  partial  explanation 
in  a  few  words. 

This  fine  old  church  in  which  I  was  honoured  to  lead 
the  prayers  of  my  people,  was  not  the  expression  of  the 
religious  feeling  of  my  time.     There  was  a  gloom  about 


246  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

it — a  sacred  gloom,  I  know,  and  I  loved  it;  but  such 
gloom  as  was  not  in  my  feeling  when  I  talked  to  my 
flock.  I  honoured  the  place;  I  rejoiced  in  its  history; 
I  delighted  to  think  that  even  by  the  temples  made  with 
hands  outlasting  these  bodies  of  ours,  we  were  in  a  sense 
united  to  those  who  in  them  had  before  us  lifted  up  holy 
hands  without  wrath  or  doubting ;  and  with  many  more 
who,  like  us,  had  lifted  up  at  least  prayerful  hands  with- 
out hatred  or  despair.  The  place  soothed  me,  tuned  me 
to  a  solemn  mood — one  of  self-denial,  and  gentle  glad- 
ness in  all  sober  things.  But,  had  I  been  an  architect, 
and  had  I  had  to  build  a  church — I  do  not  in  the  least 
know  how  I  should  have  built  it — I  am  certain  it 
would  have  been  very  different  from  this.  Else  I 
should  be  a  mere  imitator,  like  all  the  church-architects 
I  know  anything  about  in  the  present  day.  For  I  always 
found  the  open  air  the  most  genial  influence  upon  me 
for  the  production  of  religious  feeling  and  thought.  I 
had  been  led  to  try  whether  it  might  not  be  so  with  me 
by  the  fact  that  our  Lord  seemed  so  much  to  delight  in 
the  open  air,  and  late  in  the  day  as  well  as  early  in  the 
morning  would  climb  the  mountain  to  be  alone  with  His 
Father.  I  found  that  7t  helped  to  give  a  reality  to  every- 
thing that  I  thought  about,  if  I  only  contemplated  it 
under  the  high  untroubled  blue,  with  the  lowly  gre^i  be- 
neath '  my  feet,  and  the  wind  blowing  on  me  to  remind 
me  of  the  Spirit  that  once  moved  on  the  face  of  the 
waters,  bringing  order  out  of  disorder  and  light  out  of 
darkness,  and  was  now  seeking  every  day  a  fuller  entrance 


YOUNG    WEIR.  247 


into  my  heart,  that  there  He  might  work  the  one  will  of 
the  Father  in  heaven. 

My  reader  will  see  then  that  there  was,  as  it  were,  not 
so  much  a  discord,  as  a  lack  of  harmony  between  the 
surroundings  wherein  my  thoughts  took  form,  or,  to  use 
a  homelier  phrase,  my  sermon  was  studied,  and  the  sur- 
roundings wherein  I  had  to  put  these  forms  into  the 
garments  of  words,  or  preach  that  sermon.  I  therefore 
sought  to  bridge  over  this  difference  (if  I  understood 
music,  I  am  sure  I  could  find  an  expression  exactly 
fitted  to  my  meaning), — to  find  an  easy  passage  between 
the  open-air  mood  and  the  church  mood,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  bring  into  the  church  as  much  of  the  fresh  air, 
and  the  tree-music,  and  the  colour-harmony,  and  the 
gladness  over  all,  as  might  be  possible ;  and,  in  order 
to  this,  I  thought  all  my  sermon  over  again  in  the  after- 
noon sun  as  it  shone  slantingly  through  the  stained 
window  over  Lord  Eagleye's  tomb,  and  in  the  failing 
light  thereafter  and  the  gathering  dusk  of  the  twilight, 
pacing  up  and  down  the  solemn  old  place,  hanging  my 
thoughts  here  on  a  crocket,  there  on  a  corbel ;  now  on 
the  gable-point  over  which  Weir's  face  would  gaze  next 
morning,  and  now  on  the  aspiring  peaks  of  the  organ. 
I  thus  made  the  place  a  cell  of  thought  and  prayer. 
And  when  the  next  day  came,  I  found  the  forms  around 
me  so  interwoven  with  the  forms  of  my  thought,  that  I 
felt  almost  like  one  of  the  old  monks  who  had  built  the 
place,  so  little  cid  I  find  any  check  to  my  thought  or 
utterance  from  its  unfitness  for  the  expression  of  my 


248  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

individual  modernism.  But  not  one  atom  the  more  did 
I  incline  to  the  evil  fancy  that  God  was  more  in  the  past 
than  in  the  present ;  that  He  is  more  within  the  walls  oi 
the  church,  than  in  the  unwalled  sky  and  earth ;  or  seek 
to  turn  backwards  one  step  from  a  living  Now  to  an 
entombed  and  consecrated  Past. 

One  lovely  Saturday,  I  had  been  out  all  the  morning. 
I  had  not  walked  far,  for  I  had  sat  in  the  various  places 
longer  than  I  had  walked,  my  path  lying  through  fields 
and  copses,  crossing  a  country  road  only  now  and  then. 
I  had  my  Greek  Testament  with  me,  and  I  read  when 
I  sat,  and  thought  when  I  walked.  I  remember  well 
enough  that  I  was  going  to  preach  about  the  cloud  of 
witnesses,  and  explain  to  my  people  that  this  did  not 
mean  persons  looking  at,  witnessing  our  behaviour — not 
so  could  any  addition  be  made  to  the  awfulness  of  the 
fact  that  the  eye  of  God  was  upon  us — but  witnesses  to 
the  truth,  people  who  did  what  God  wanted  them  to 
do,  come  of  it  what  might,  whether  a  crown  or  a  rack, 
scoffs  or  applause;  to  behold  whose  witnessing  might 
well  rouse  all  that  was  human  and  divine  in  us  to  chose 
our  part  with  them  and  their  Lord. — When  I  came 
home,  I  had  an  early  dinner,  and  then  betook  myself  to 
ray  Saturday's  resort. — I  had  never  had  a  room  large 
enough  to  satisfy  me  before.  Now  my  study  was  to  my 
mind. 

All  through  the  slowly-fading  afternoon,  the  autumn 
of  the  day,  when  the  colours  are  richest  and  the  shadows 
long  and  lengthening,  I  paced  my  solemn  old-thoughted 
church.     Sometimes  I  went  up  into  the  pulpit  and  sat 


YOUNG    WEIR.  249 


there,  looking  on  the  ancient  walls  which  had  grown  up 
undei  men's  hands  that  men  might  be  helped  to  pray  by 
the  visible  symbol  of  unity  which  the  walls  gave,  and 
that  the  voice  of  the  Spirit  01  God  might  be  heard  ex- 
horting men  to  forsake  the  evil  and  choose  the  good. 
And  I  thought  how  many  witnesses  to  the  truth  had 
knelt  in  those  ancient  pews.  For  as  the  great  church  is 
made  up  of  numberless  communities,  so  is  the  great 
shining  orb  of  witness-bearers  made  up  of  millions  of 
lesser  orbs.  All  men  and  women  of  true  heart  bear 
individual  testimony  to  the  truth  of  God,  saying,  "  I 
have  trusted  and  found  Him  faithful."  And  the  feeble 
light  of  the  glowworm  is  yet  light,  pure,  and  good,  and 
with  a  loveliness  of  its  own.  "  So,  O  Lord,"  I  said, 
"  let  my  light  shine  before  men."  And  I  felt  no  fear  of 
vanity  in  such  a  prayer,  for  I  knew  that  the  glory  to 
come  of  it  is  to  God  only — "  that  men  may  glorify  their 
Father  in  heaven."  And  I  knew  that  when  we  seek 
glory  for  ourselves,  the  light  goes  out,  and  the  Horror 
that  dwells  in  darkness  breathes  cold  upon  our  spirits. 
And  I  remember  that  just  as  I  thought  thus,  my  eye  was 
caught  first  by  a  yellow  light  that  gilded  the  apex  of  the 
font-cover,  which  had  been  wrought  like  a  flarne  or  a 
bursting  blossom :  it  was  so  old  and  worn,  I  never  could 
tell  which ;  and  then  by  a  red  light  all  over  a  white 
marble  tablet  in  the  wall — the  red  of  life  on  the  cold 
Ime  of  the  grave.  And  this  red  light  did  not  come  from 
any  work  of  man's  device,  but  from  the  great  window  ot 
the  west,  which  little  Gerard  Weir  wanted  to  help  God 
to  [taint.     I  must   have   been  in  a  happy  mood  that 


'»50  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Saturday  afternoon,  for  everything  pleased  me  and  made 
me  happier;  and  all  the  church-forms  about  me  blended 
and  harmonised  graciously  with  the  throne  and  foot- 
stool of  God  which  I  saw  through  the  windows.  And  T 
lingered  on  till  the  night  had  come ;  till  the  church  only 
gloomed  about  me,  and  had  no  shine ;  and  then  I  found 
my  spirit  burning  up  the  clearer,  as  a  lamp  which  has 
been  flaming  all  the  day  with  light  unseen  becomes  a 
glory  in  the  room  when  the  sun  is  gone  down. 

At  length  I  felt  tired,  and  would  go  home.  Yet  I 
lingered  for  a  few  moments  in  the  vestry,  thinking  what 
hymns  would  harmonize  best  with  the  things  I  wanted 
to  make  my  people  think  about  It  was  now  almost 
quite  dark  out  of  doors — at  least  as  dark  as  it  would 
be. 

Suddenly  through  the  gloom  I  thought  I  heard  a 
moan  and  a  sob.  I  sat  upright  in  my  chair  and  listened. 
But  I  heard  nothing  more,  and  concluded  I  had  de- 
ceived myself.  After  a  few  moments,  I  rose  to  go  home 
and  have  some  tea,  and  turn  my  mind  rather  away  from 
than  towards  the  subject  of  witness-bearing  any  more  for 
that  night,  lest  I  should  burn  the  fuel  of  it  out  before  I 
came  to  warm  the  people  with  it,  and  should  have  to 
blow  its  embers  instead  of  flashing  its  light  and  heat 
upon  them  in  gladness.  So  I  left  the  church  by  my 
vestry-door,  which  I  closed  behind  me,  and  took  my 
way  along  the  path  through  the  clustering  group  of 
graves. 

Again  I  heard  a  sob.  This  time  I  was  sure  of  it. 
And  there  lay  something  dark  upon  oiie  of  the  grassy 


YOUNG    WEIR.  25/ 


mounds.  I  approached  it,  but  it  did  not  move.  1 
spoke. 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use  to  you  ?"  I  said. 

"  No,"  returned  an  almost  inaudible  voice. 

Though  I  did  not  know  whose  was  the  grave,  I  knew 
that  no  one  had  been  buried  there  very  lately,  and  if  the 
grief  were  for  the  loss  of  the  dead,  it  was  more  than 
probably  aroused  to  fresh  vigour  by  recent  misfortune. 

I  stooped,  and  taking  the  figure  by  the  arm,  said, 

"  Come  with  me,  and  let  us  see  what  can  be  done  for 
you." 

I  then  saw  that  it  was  a  youth — perhaps  scarcely  more 
than  a  boy.  And  as  soon  as  I  saw  that,  I  knew  that  his 
grief  could  hardly  be  incurable.  He  returned  no  an- 
swer, but  rose  at  once  to  his  feet,  and  submitted  to  be 
led  away.  I  took  him  the  shortest  road  to  my  house 
through  the  shrubbery,  brought  him  into  the  study,  made 
him  sit  down  in  my  easy-chair,  and  rang  for  lights  and 
wine;  for  the  dew  had  been  falling  heavily,  and  his 
clothes  were  quite  dank.  But  when  the  win**  came,  he 
refused  to  take  any. 

"  But  you  want  it,"  I  said. 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't,  indeed." 

"  Take  some  for  my  sake,  then." 

"  I  would  rather  not,  sir." 

"Why?" 

"  I  promised  my  father  a  year  ago,  when  I  left  home, 
that  I  would  not  drink  anything  stronger  than  water. 
And  I  jjan't  break  my  promise  now." 

"  Where  is  your  home  ?" 


252  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  In  the  village,  sir." 

"  That  wasn't  your  father's  grave  I  found  you  upon, 
was  it  1" 

"  No,  sir.     It  was  my  mother's." 

"  Then  your  father  is  still  alive  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir.    You  know  him  very  well — Thomas  Weir." 

"  Ah  !  He  told  me  he  had  a  son  in  London.  Are 
you  that  son  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  youth,  swallowing  a  rising 
sob. 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter  1  Your  father  is  a  good 
friend  of  mine,  and  would  tell  you  you  might  trust  me." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  sir.  But  you  won't  believe  me  any 
more  than  my  father." 

By  this  time  I  had  perused  his  person,  his  dress,  and 
his  countenance.  He  was  of  middle  size,  but  evidently 
not  full  grown.  His  dress  was  very  decent.  His  face 
was  pale  and  thin,  and  revealed  a  likeness  to  his  father. 
He  had  blue  eyes  that  looked  full  at  me,  and,  as  far  as 
I  could  judge,  betokened,  along  with  the  whole  of  his 
expression,  an  honest  and  sensitive  nature.  I  found 
him  very  attractive,  and  was  therefore  the  more  em- 
boldened to  press  for  the  knowledge  of  his  story. 

"  I  cannot  promise  to  believe  whatever  you  say ;  but 
almost  I  could.  And  if  you  tell  me  the  truth,  I  like  you 
too  much  already  to  be  in  great  danger  of  doubting  you  j 
for  you  know  the  truth  has  a  force  of  its  own." 

"  I  thought  so  till  to-night,"  he  answered.  "  But  it 
my  father  would  not  believe  me,  how  can  I  expect  you 
to  do  so,  sirl" 


YOUNG    WEIR.  253 


"  Your  father  may  have  been  too  much  troubled  by 
your  story  to  be  able  to  do  it  justice.  It  is  not  a  bit 
like  your  father  to  be  unfair." 

*'  No,  sir.  And  so  much  the  less  chance  of  you^ 
believing  me." 

Somehow  his  talk  prepossessed  me  still  more  in  his 
favour.  There  was  a  certain  refinement  in  it,  a  quality 
of  dialogue  which  indicated  thought,  as  I  judged ;  and  I 
became  more  and  more  certain  that,  whatever  I  might 
have  to  think  of  it  when  told,  he  would  yet  tell  me  the 
truth. 

"  Come,  try  me,"  I  said. 

"  I  will,  sir.     But  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning." 

"  Begin  where  you  like.  I  have  nothing  more  to  do 
to-night,  and  you  may  take  what  time  you  please.  But 
I  will  ring  for  tea  first;  for  I  dare  say  you  have  not 
made  any  promise  about  that" 

A  faint  smile  flickered  on  his  face.  He  was  evidently 
beginning  to  feel  a  little  more  comfortable. 

"  When  did  you  arrive  from  London  1 "  I  asked. 

"  About  two  hours  ago,  I  suppose." 

"  Bring  tea,  Mrs  Pearson,  and  that  cold  chicken  and 
ham,  and  plenty  of  toast.     We  are  both  hungry." 

Mrs  Pearson  gave  a  questioning  look  at  the  lad,  and 
departed  to  do  her  duty. 

When  she  returned  with  the  tray,  I  saw  by  the  uncon- 
sciously eager  way  in  which  he  looked  at  the  eatables, 
that  he  had  had  nothing  for  some  time ;  and  so,  even 
after  we  were  left  alone,  I  would  not  let  him  say  a  word 
till  he  had  made  a  good  meal.     It  was  delightful  to  see 


254  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

how  he  ate.  Few  troubles  will  destroy  a  growing  lad's 
hunger ;  and  indeed  it  has  always  been  to  me  a  marvel 
how  the  feelings  and  the  appetites  affect  each  other.  I 
have  known  grief  actually  make  people,  and  not  sensual 
people  at  all,  quite  hungry.  At  last  I  thought  I  had 
better  not  offer  him  any  more. 

After  the  tea-things  had  been  taken  away,  I  put  the 
candles  out ;  and  the  moon,  which  had  risen,  nearly  full, 
while  we  were  at  tea,  shone  into  the .  room.  I  had 
thought  that  he  might  possibly  find  it  easiier  to  tell  his 
story  in  the  moonlight,  which,  if  there  were  any  shame 
in  the  recital,  would  not,  by  too  much  revelation,  reduce 
him  to  the  despair  of  Macbeth,  when,  feeling  that  he 
could  contemplate  his  deed,  but  not  his  deed  and  him- 
self together,  he  exclaimed, 

•*  To  know  my  deed,  'twere  best  not  know  mysel£'* 

So,  sitting  by  the  window  in  the  moonlight,  he  told 
his  tale.  The  moon  lighted  up  his  pale  face  as  he  told 
it,  and  gave  rather  a  wild  expression  to  his  eyes,  eager 
to  find  faith  in  me. — I  have  not  much  of  the  dramatic 
in  me,  I  know ;  and  I  am  rather  a  flat  teller  of  stories 
on  that  account.  I  shall  not,  therefore,  seeing  there  is 
no  necessity  for  it,  attempt  to  give  the  tale  in  his  own 
words.  But,  indeed,  when  I  think  of  it,  they  did  not 
diffei  so  much  from  the  form  of  my  own,  for  he  had,  I 
presume,  lost  his  provincialisms,  and  being,  as  I  found 
afterwards,  a  reader  of  the  best  books  that  came  in  his 
way,  had  not  caught  up  many  cockneyisms  instead. 

He  had  filled  a  place  in  the  employment  of  Messrs 


YOUNG    WEIR.  255 


&  Co.,  large  silk-mercers,  linen-drapers,  &c.,  &c.; 

in  London;  for  all  the  trades  are  mingled  now.  His 
work  at  first  was  to  accompany  one  of  the  carts  which 
delivered  the  purchases  of  the  day ;  but,  I  presume  be- 
cause he  showed  himself  to  be  a  smart  lad,  they  took 
him  at  length  into  the  shop  to  wait  behind  the  counter. 
This  he  did  not  like  so  much,  but,  as  it  was  considered  a 
rise  in  life,  made  no  objection  to  the  change. 

He  seemed  to  himself  to  get  on  pretty  well.  He  soon 
learned  all  the  marks  on  the  goods  intended  to  be  un- 
derstood by  the  shopmen,  and  within  a  few  months 
believed  that  he  was  found  generally  useful.  He  had  as 
yet  had  no  distinct  department  allotted  to  him,  but  was 
moved  from  place  to  place,  according  as  the  local  pres- 
sure of  business  might  demand. 

"  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  that  I  was  not  always  satisfied 
with  what  was  going  on  about  me.  I  mean  I  could  not 
help  doubting  if  everything  was  done  on  the  square,  as 
they  say.  But  nothing  came  plainly  in  my  way,  and  so 
I  could  honestly  say  it  did  not  concern  me.  I  took  care 
to  be  straightforward  for  my  part,  and,  knowing  only  the 
prices  marked  for  the  sale  of  the  goods,  I  had  nothing  to 
do  with  anything  else.  But  one  day,  while  I  was  show- 
ing a  lady  some  handkerchiefs  which  were  marked  as 
mouchoirs  de  Paris — I  don't  know  if  I  pronounce  it  right, 
sir — she  said  she  did  not  believe  they  were  French  cam- 
bric; and  I,  knowing  nothing  about  it,  said  nothing. 
But,  happening  to  look  up  while  we  both  stood  silent, 
the  lady  examining  the  handkerchiefs,  and  I  doing  nothing 
till  she  should  have  made  up  her  mind,  I  caught  sight  of 


256  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

the  eyes  of  the  shop-walker,  as  they  call  the  man  who 
shows  customers  where  to  go  for  what  they  want,  and 
sees  that  they  are  attended  to.  He  is  a  fat  man,  dressed 
in  black,  with  a  great  gold  chain,  which  they  say  in  the 
shop  is  only  copper  gilt.  But  that  doesn't  matter,  only 
it  would  be  the  Hker  himself.  He  was  standing  staring 
at  me.  I  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  it ;  but  from 
that  day  I  often  caught  him  watching  me,  as  if  I  had 
been  a  customer  suspected  of  shop-lifting.  Still  I  only 
thought  he  was  very  disagreeable,  and  tried  to  forget 
him. 

"  One  day — the  day  before  yesterday — two  ladies,  an 
old  lady  and  a  young  one,  came  into  the  shop,  and 
wanted  to  look  at  some  shawls.  It  was  dinner-time,  and 
most  of  the  men  were  in  the  house  at  their  dinner.  The 
sliop-walker  sent  me  to  them,  and  then,  I  do  believe, 
though  I  did  not  see  him,  stood  behind  a  pillar  to  watch 
me,  as  he  had  been  in  the  way  of  doing  more  openly.  I 
thought  I  had  seen  the  ladies  before,  and  though  fcould 
not  'then  tell  where,  I  am  now  almost  sure  they  were  Mrs 
and  Miss  Oldcastle,  of  the  Hall.  They  wanted  to  buy 
a  cashmere  for  the  young  lady.  I  showed  them  some. 
They  wanted  better.  I  brought  the  best  we  had,  inquir- 
ing, that  I  might  make  no  mistake.  They  asked  the 
price.  I  told  them.  They  said  they  were  not  good 
enough,  and  wanted  to  see  some  more.  I  told  them  they 
were  the  best  we  had.  They  looked  at  them  again ;  said 
they  were  sorry,  but  the  shawls  were  not  good  enough, 
and  left  the  shop  without  buying  anything.  I  proceeded 
to  take  the  shawls  up-stairs  again,  and,  as  I  went,  passed 


YOUNG    WEIR.  257 


the  shop  walker,  whom  I  had  not  observed  while  I  was 
attending  to  the  ladies.  'You're  for  no  good,  young 
man  !'  he  said  with  a  nasty  sneer.  '  What  do  you  mean 
by  that,  Mr  B.  ?'  I  asked,  for  his  sneer  made  me  angry. 
'  You  11  know  before  to-morrow,'  he  answered,  an^  walked 
away.  That  same  evening,  as  we  were  shutting  up  shop, 
I  was  sent  for  to  the  principal's  room.  The  moment  T 
entered,  he  said,  *  You  won't  suit  us,  young  man,  I  find 
You  had  better  pack  up  your  box  to-night,  and  be  off  to 
morrow.  There 's  your  quarter's  salary.'  *  What  have  J 
donel'  I  asked  in  astonishment,  and  yet  with  a  vague 
suspicion  of  the  matter.  *  It 's  not  what  you  've  done, 
but  what  you  don't  do,'  he  answered.  *  Do  you  think  we 
can  afford  to  keep  you  here  and  pay  you  wages  to  send 
people  away  from  the  shop  without  buying  ]  If  you  do, 
you  're  mistaken,  that 's  all.     You  may  go.'     *  But  what 

could  I  do  ]'  I  said.     '  I  suppose  that  spy,  B ,' — ] 

believe  I  said  so,  sir.     '  Now,  now,  young  man,  none  of 

your  sauce  !'  said  Mr .     *  Honest  people  don't  think 

about  spies.'     *  I  thought  it  was  for  honesty  you  were 

getting  rid  of  me,'  I  said.     Mr rose  to  his  feet,  his 

lips  white,  and  pointed  to  the  door.  *  Take  your  money 
and  be  off.  And  mind  you  don't  refer  to  me  for  a  char- 
acter. After  such  impudence  I  couldn't  in  conscience 
give  you  one.'  Then,  calming  down  a  little  when  he  saw 
I  turned  to  go,  '  You  had  better  take  to  your  hands  again, 
for  your  head  will  never  keep  you.  There,  be  off!'  he 
said,  pushing  the  money  towards  me,  and  turning  his 
back  to  me.  I  could  not  touch  it.  *  Keep  the  money, 
Mr ,'  I  said.     '  It  '11  make  up  for  what  yoi  've  lost 


258  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

by  me.'  And  I  left  the  room  at  once  without  waiting 
for  an  answer. 

"  While  I  was  packing  my  box,  one  of  my  chums 
came  in,  and  I  told  him  all  about  it.  He  is  rather  a 
good  fellow  that,  sir;  but  he  laughed,  and  said,  'What 
a  fool  you  are,  Weir!  You'll  never  make  your  daily 
bread,  and  you  needn't  think  it.  If  you  knew  what  I 
know,  you  'd  have  known  better.  And  it 's  very  odd  it 
was  about  shawls,  too.     I  '11  tell  you.     As  you  're  going 

away,  you  won't  let  it  out.     Mr  '  (that  was  the 

same  who  had  just  turned  me  away)  '  was  serving  some 
ladies  himself,  for  he  wasn't  above  being  in  the  shop, 
like  his  partner.  They  wanted  the  best  Indian  shawl 
they  could  get.  None  of  those  he  showed  them  were 
good  enough,  for  the  ladies  really  didn't  know  one  from 
another.     They  always  go  by  the  price  you  ask,  and  Mr 

knew  that  well  enough.     He  had  sent  me  up-stairs 

for  the  shawls,  and  as  I  brought  them  he  said,  "  These 
are  the  best  imported,  madam."  There  were  three 
ladies ;  and  one  shook  her  head,  and  another  shook  her 
head,  and  they  all  shook  their  heads.     And  then  Mr 

was  sorry,  I  believe  you,  that  he  had  said  they 

were  the  best.  But  you  won't  catch  him  in  a  trap ! 
He 's  too  old  a  fox  for  that'  I  'm  telling  you,  sir,  what 
Johnson  told  me.  *  He  looked  close  down  at  the 
shawls,  as  if  he  were  short-sighted,  though  he  could  see 
as  far  as  any  man.  **  I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies,"  said  he, 
"you're  right  I  am  quite  wrong.  What  a  stupid 
blunder  to  make  !  And  yet  they  did  deceive  me.  Here, 
Johnson,  take  these  shawls  away.     How  could  you  be 


YOUNG    WEIR.  250 


SO  stupid  ?  I  will  fetch  the  thing  you  want  myself, 
ladies,"  So  I  went  with  him.  He  chose  out  three  or 
four  shawls,  of  the  nicest  patterns,  from  the  very  same 
lot,  marked  in  the  very  same  way,  folded  them  differ 
^ntly-j  and  gave  them  to  me  to  carry  down.  "Now, 
ladies,  here  they  are!"  he  said.  "These  are  quite  a 
different  thing,  as  you  w  ill  see ;  and,  indeed,  they  cost 
half  as  much  again."  In  five  minutes  they  had  bought 
two  of  them,  and  paid  just  half  as  much  more  than  he 

had  asked  for  them  the  first  time.     That 's  Mr ! 

and  that 's  what  you  should  have  done  if  you  had  wanted 
to  keep  your  place.' — But  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  could  not 
help  being  glad  to  be  out  of  it." 

"  But  there  is  nothing  in  all  this  to  be  miserable 
about,"  I  said.     "  You  did  your  duty." 

"  It  would  be  all  right,  sir,  if  father  believed  me,  I 
don't  want  to  be  idle,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Does  your  father  think  you  do  ]" 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  thinks.  He  won't  speak  to  me. 
I  told  my  story — as  much  of  it  as  he  would  let  me,  at 
least — but  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  He  only  said  he 
knew  better  than  that.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  He  always  was 
rather  hard  upon  us.  I  'm  sure  if  you  hadn't  been  so 
kind  to  me,  sir,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
by  this  time.    I  haven't  another  friend  in  the  world." 

"  Yes,  you  have.  Your  Father  in  heaven  is  your 
fiiend." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  sir.     I  'm  not  good  enough." 

"  That 's  quite  true.  But  you  would  never  have  done 
your  duty  if  He  had  not  been  with  you." 


a6o  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  sir  ? "  he  returned,  eagerly. 

"Indeed,  I  do.  Ever^ching  good  comes  from  the 
Father  of  lights.  Every  one  that  walks  in  any  glimmering 
of  light  walks  so  far  in  His  light.  For  there  is  no  light 
— only  darkness — comes  from  below.  And  man  apart 
from  God  can  generate  no  light  He 's  not  meant  to  be 
separated  from  God,  you  see.  And  only  think  then  what 
light  He  can  give  you  if  you  will  turn  to  Him  and  ask  for 
it.  What  He  has  given  you  should  make  you  long  for 
more ;  for  what  you  have  is  not  enough — ah !  far  from  it." 

"  I  think  I  understand.  But  I  didn't  feel  good  at  all 
in  the  matter.     I  didn't  see  any  other  way  of  doing." 

"  So  much  the  better.  We  ought  never  to  feel  good. 
We  are  but  unprofitable  servants  at  best.  There  is  no 
merit  in  doing  your  duty ;  only  you  would  have  been  a 
poor  wretched  creature  not  to  do  as  you  did.  And 
now,  instead  of  making  yourself  miserable  over  the 
consequences  of  it,  you  ought  to  bear  them  like  a  man, 
with  courage  and  hope,  thanking  God  that  He  has 
made  you  suffer  for  righteousness'  sake,  and  denied  you 
the  success  and  the  praise  of  cheating.  I  will  go  to 
your  father  at  once,  and  find  out  what  he  is  tliinking 

about  it.     For  no   doubt  Mr has  written  to  him 

with  his  version  of  the  story.  Perhaps  he  will  be  more 
inclined  to  believe  you  when  he  finds  that  I  believe 
you." 

'*  Oh,  thank  you,  sir !  "  cried  the  lad,  and  jumped  up 
from  his  seat  to  go  with  me. 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  you  had  better  stay  where  you  are. 
I  shall  be  able  to  speak  more  freely  if  you  are  no! 


YOUNG    WEIR. 


present.  Here  is  a  book  to  amuse  yourself  with.  I  do 
nol  think  I  shall  be  long  gone." 

But  I  was  longer  gone  than  I  thought  I  should  be. 

When  I  reached  the  carpenter's  house,  I  found,  to  mj 
surprise,  that  he  was  still  at  work.  By  the  light  of  a 
single  tallow  candle  placed  beside  him  on  the  bench, 
he  was  ploughing  away  at  a  groove.  His  pale  face,  of 
which  the  lines  were  unusually  sharp,  as  I  might  have 
expected  after  what  had  occurred,  was  the  sole  object 
that  reflected  the  light  of  the  candle  to  ray  eyes  as  I 
entered  the  gloomy  place.  He  looked  up,  but  without 
even  greeting  me,  dropped  his  face  again  and  went  on 
with  his  work. 

"  What ! "  I  said,  cheerily, — for  I  believed  that,  like 
Gideon's  pitcher,  I  held  dark  within  me  the  light  that 
would  discomfit  his  Midianites,  which  consciousness 
may  well  make  the  pitcher  cheery  inside,  even  while  the 
light  as  yet  is  all  its  own — ^worthless,  till  it  break  out 
.upon  the  world,  and  cease  to  illuminate  only  glazed 
pitcher-sides — "  What ! "  I  said,  "  working  so  late  ] " 

«  Yes,  sir." 

**  It  is  not  usual  with  you,  I  know." 

"  It 's  all  a  humbug ! "  he  said  fiercely,  but  coldly  not- 
withstanding, as  he  stood  erect  from  his  work,  and 
turned  his  white  face  full  on  me — of  which,  however, 
(he  eyes  drooped — "  It 's  all  a  humbug ;  and  I  don't 
mean  to  be  humbugged  any  more." 

"  Am  I  a  humbug  ] "  I  returned,  not  quite  taken  by 
surprise. 

"  I  don't  say  that.     Don't  make  a  personal  thing  of 


262  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

it,  sir.  You  're  taken  in,  I  believe,  like  the  rest  of  us. 
Tell  me  that  a  God  governs  the  world !  What  have  1 
done,  to  be  used  like  this  1 " 

I  thought  with  myself  how  I  could  retort  for  his  young 
son :  "  What  has  he  done  to  be  used  like  this  ] "  But 
that  was  not  my  way,  though  it  might  work  well  enough 
in  some  hands.  Some  men  are  called  to  be  prophets. 
I  could  only  "  stand  and  wait" 

"  It  would  be  wrong  in  me  to  pretend  ignorance,"  I 
said,  "  of  what  you  mean.     I  know  all  about  it." 

"  Do  you  1  He  has  been  to  you,  has  he  1  But  you 
don't  know  all  about  it,  sir.  The  impudence  of  the 
young  rascal ! " 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  A  man  like  me  1 "  he  resumed,  becoming  eloquent 
in  his  indignation,  and,  as  I  thought  afterwards,  entirely 
justifying  what  Wordsworth  says  about  the  language  of 
the  so-called  uneducated, — "A  man  like  me,  who  was 
as  proud  of  his  honour-as  any  aristocrat  in  the  country 
— prouder  than  any  of  them  would  grant  me  the  right 
to  be ! " 

"  Too  proud  of  it,  I  think — not  too  careful  of  it,"  I 
said.  But  I  was  thankful  he  did  not  heed  me,  for  the 
speech  would  only  have  irritated  him.     He  went  on. 

"  Me  to  be  treated  like  this !     One  child  a  .  .  . " 

Here  came  a  terrible  break  in  his  speech.  But  he 
tried  again. 

"  And  the  other  a  ...  * 

Instead  of  finishing  the  sentence,  however,  he  drove 


YOUNG    WEIR.  263 


his  plongh  fiercely  through  the  groove,  splitting  off  some 
'nches  of  the  wall  of  it  at  the  end. 

"  If  any  one  has  treated  you  so,"  I  said,  "  it  must  be 
the  devil,  not  God." 

"  But  if  there  was  a  God,  he  could  have  prevented  it 
alL" 

"  Mind  what  I  said  to  you  once  before :  He  hasn't 
done  yet.  And  there  is  another  enemy  in  His  way  as 
bad  as  the  devil — I  mean  our  selves.  When  people  want 
to  walk  their  own  way  without  God,  God  lets  them  try 
it.  And  then  the  devil  gets  a  hold  of  them.  But  God 
won't  let  him  keep  them.  As  soon  as  they  are  *  wearied 
m  the  greatness  of  their  way,'  they  begin  to  look  about 
for  a  Saviour.  And  then  they  find  God  ready  to  pardon, 
ready  to  help,  not  breaking  the  bruised  reed — leading 
them  to  his  own  self  manifest — with  whom  no  man  can 
fear  any  longer,  Jesus  Christ,  the  righteous  lover  of  men 
— their  elder  brother — what  we  call  big  brother,  you  know 
— one  to  help  them  and  take  their  part  against  the  devil, 
the  world,  and  the  flesh,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  wicked 
powers.  So  you  see  God  is  tender — just  like  the  pro- 
digal son's  father — only  with  this  difference,  that  God 
has  millions  of  prodigals,  and  never  gets  tired  of  going 
out  to  meet  them  and  welcome  them  back,  every  one  as 
if  he  were  the  only  prodigal  son  He  had  ever  had. 
There 's  a  father  indeed  !  Have  you  been  such  a  father 
to  your  son  % " 

"  The  prodigal  didn't  come  with  a  pack  of  lies.  He 
tcld  his  father  the  truth,  bad  as  it  was." 


264  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  your  son  didn't  tell  you  the 
truth  1  All  the  young  men  that  go  from  home  don't  do 
as  the  prodigal  did.  Why  should  you  not  beheve  what 
he  tells  you  1 " 

"  I  'm  not  one  to  reckon  without  my  host.  Here 's 
my  bill." 

And  so  saying,  he  handed  me  a  letter.  I  took  it  and 
read : — 

"  Sir, — It  has  become  our  painful  duty  to  inform  you 
that  your  son  has  this  day  been  discharged  from  the  em- 
ployment of  Messrs and  Co.,  his  conduct  not  being 

sucii  as  to  justify  the  confidence  hitherto  reposed  in  him. 
It  would  have  been  contrary  to  the  interests  of  the 
establishment  to  continue  him  longer  behind  the  coun- 
ter, although  we  are  not  prepared  to  urge  anything 
against  him  beyond  the  fact  that  he  has  shown  himselt 
absolutely  indifferent  to  the  interests  of  his  employers. 
We  trust  that  the  chief  blame  will  be  found  to  lie  with 
certain  connexions  of  a  kind  easy  to  be  formed  in  large 
cities,  and  that  the  loss  of  his  situation  may  be  punish- 
ment sufiicitnt,  if  not  for  justice,  yet  to  make  him' con- 
sider his  ways  and  be  wise.  We  enclose  his  quarter's 
salary,  which  the  young  man  rejected  with  insult,  and, 
"  We  remain,  &c., 

" and  Co." 

**  And,"  I  exclaimed,  "  this  is  what  you  found  your 
judgment  of  your  own  son  upon  !  You  reject  him  un- 
heard, and  take  the  word  of  a  stranger  !    I  don't  wonder 


YOUNG    WEIR.  265 


you  cannot  believe  in  your  Father  when  you  behave  so 
to  your  son.  I  don't  say  your  conclusion  is  false,  though 
I  don't  believe  it.  But  I  do  say  the  grounds  you  go 
upon  are  anything  but  sufficient." 

"  You  don't'mean  to  tell  me  that  a  man  of  Mr 's 

standing,  who  has  one  of  the  largest  shops  in  London, 
and  whose  brother  is  Mayor  of  Addicehead,  would 
slander  a  poor  lad  like  that !" 

"  Oh  you  mammon-worshipper ! "  I  cried.  "  Because 
a  man  has  one  of  the  largest  shops  in  London,  and  his 
brother  is  Mayor  of  Addicehead,  you  take  his  testimony 
and  refuse  your  son's  !  I  did  not  know  the  boy  till  this 
evening;  but  I  call  upon  you  to  bring  back  to  your 
memory  all  that  you  have  known  of  him  from  his  child- 
hood, and  then  ask  yourself  whether  there  is  not,  at 
least,  as  much  probability  of  his  having  remained  honest 
as  of  the  master  of  a  great  London  shop  being  infallible 
in  his  conclusions — at  which  conclusions,  whatever  they 
be,  I  confess  no  man  can  wonder,  after  seeing  how 
readily  his  father  listens  to  his  defamation." 

I  spoke  with  warmth.  Before  I  had  done,  the  pale 
face  of  the  carpenter  was  red  as  fire ;  for  he  had  been 
acting  contrary  to  all  his  own  theories  of  human  equality, 
and  that  in  a  shameful  manner.  Still,  whether  convinced 
or  not,  he  would  not  give  in.  He  only  drove  away  at 
his  work,  which  he  was  utterly  destroying.  His  mouth 
was  closed  so  tight,  he  looked  as  if  he  had  his  jaw 
locked;  and  his  eyes  gleamed  over  the  ruined  board 
with  a  light  which  seemed  to  me  to  have  more  of  ob- 
stinacy in  it  than  contrition. 


266  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"Ah,  Thomas!"  I  said,  taking  up  the  speech  onca 
more,  "  if  God  had  behaved  to  us  as  you  have  behaved 
to  your  boy — be  he  innocent,  be  he  guilty — there 's  not 
a  man  or  woman  of  all  our  lost  race  would  have  re 
turned  to  Him  from  the  time  of  Adam  till  now.  I  don't 
wonder  that  you  find  it  difficult  to  believe  in  Him." 

And  with  those  words  I  left  the  shop,  determined  to 
overwhelm  the  unbeliever  with  proof,  and  put  him  to 
Bhame  before  his  own  soul,  whence,  I  thought,  would 
come  even  more  good  to  him  than  to  his  son.  For 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  self-satisfaction  mixed  up  with 
the  man's  honesty,  and  the  sooner  that  had  a  blow 
the  better — it  might  prove  a  death-blow  in  the  long  run. 
It  was  pride  that  lay  at  the  root  of  his  hardness.  He 
visited  the  daughter's  fault  upon  the  son.  His  daughter 
had  disgraced  him  ;  and  he  was  ready  to  flash  into  wrath 
with  his  son  upon  any  imputation  which  recalled  to  him 
the  torture  he  had  undergone  when  his  daughter's  dis- 
honour came  first  to  the  light.  Her  he  had  never  for- 
given, and  now  his  pride  flung  his  son  out  after  her 
upon  the  first  suspicion.     His  imagination  had  filled  up 

all  the  blanks  in  the  wicked  insinuations  of  Mr . 

He  concluded  that  he  had  taken  money  to  spend  in  the 
worst  company,  and  had  so  disgraced  him  beyond  for- 
giveness. His  pride  paralysed  his  Icve.  He  thought 
more  about  himself  than  about  his  children.  His  own 
shame  outweighed  in  his  estimation  the  sadness  of  their 
guilt  It  was  a  less  matter  that  they  should  be  guilty, 
than  that  he,  their  father,  should  be  disgraced. 

Thinking  over  all  this^  and  forgetting  how  late  it  was,  1 


YOUNG    WEIR.  267 


found  myself  half-way  up  the  avenue  of  the  Hall.  1 
wanted  to  find  out  whether  young  Weir's  fancy  that  the 
ladies  he  had  failed  in  serving,  or  rather  whom  he  had 
really  served  with  honesty,  were  Mrs  and  Miss  Old- 
castle,  was  correct.  What  a  point  it  would  be  if  it  was  ! 
I  should  not  then  be  satisfied  except  I  could  prevail  on 
Miss  Oldcastle  to  accompany  me  to  Thomas  Weir,  and 
shame  the  faithlessness  out  of  him.  So  eager  was  I 
after  certainty,  that  it  was  not  till  I  stood  before  the 
house  that  I  saw  clearly  the  impropriety  of  attempting 
anything  further  that  night.  One  light  only  was  burn- 
ing in  the  whole  front,  and  that  was  on  the  first  floor. 

Glancing  up  at  it,  I  knew  not  why,  as  I  turned  to  go 
down  the  hill  again,  I  saw  a  corner  of  the  blind  drawn 
aside  and  a  face  peeping  out — whose,  I  could  not  tell. 
This  was  uncomfortable — for  what  could  be  taking  me 
there  at  such  a  time  ]  But  I  walked  steadily  away,  cer- 
tain I  could  not  escape  recognition,  and  determining  to 
refer  to  this  ill-considered  visit  when  I  called  the  next 
day.  I  would  not  put  it  off  till  Monday,  I  was  re- 
solved. 

I  lingered  on  the  bridge  as  I  went  home.  Not  a  light 
was  to  be  seen  in  the  village,  except  one  over  Catherine 
Weir's  shop.  There  were  not  many  restless  souls  in  my 
parish — not  so  many  as  there  ought  to  be.  Yet  gladly 
would  I  see  the  troubled  in  peace — not  a  moment, 
though,  before  their  troubles  should  have  brought  them 
where  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  can  alone  find  rest  to 
their  souls — finding  the  Father's  peace  in  the  Son — the 
Father  himself  reconciling  them  to  Himselfl 


268  ANNALS    OF    A    QVIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

How  still  the  night  was !  My  soul  hung,  as  it  were, 
suspended  in  stillness ;  for  the  whole  sphere  of  heaven 
seemed  to  be  about  me,  the  stars  above  shining  as  clear 
below  in  the  mirror  of  the  all  but  motionless  water.  It 
was  a  pure  type  of  the  "  rest  tliat  remaineth" — rest,  the 
one  immovable  centre  wherein  lie  all  the  stores  of  might, 
whence  issue  all  forces,  all  influences  of  making  and 
moulding.  "And,  indeed,"  I  said  to  myself,  "after  all 
the  noise,  uproar,  and  strife  that  there  is  on  the  earth, 
after  all  the  tempests,  earthquakes,  and  volcanic  outbursts, 
there  is  yet  more  of  peace  than  of  tumuli  in  the  world. 
How  many  nights  like  this  glide  away  in  loveliness,  when 
deep  sleep  hath  fallen  upon  men,  and  they  know  neither 
how  still  their  own  repose,  nor  how  beautiful  the  sleep  of 
nature  !  Ah,  what  must  the  stillness  of  the  kingdom  be  1 
When  the  heavenly  day's  work  is  done,  with  what  a  gentle 
wing  will  the  night  come  down !  But  I  bethink  me,  the 
rest  there,  as  here,  will  be  the  presence  of  God ;  and  ix 
we  have  Him  with  us,  the  battle-field  itself  will  be — if 
not  quiet,  yet  as  full  of  peace  as  this  night  of  stars."  So 
I  spoke  to  myself,  and  went  home. 

I  had  little  immediate  comfort  to  give  my  young  guest, 
but  I  had  plenty  of  hope.  I  told  him  he  must  stay  in 
the  house  to-morrow ;  for  it  would  be  better  to  have  the 
reconciliation  with  his  father  over  before  he  appeared  in 
public.     So  the  next  day  neither  Weir  was  at  church. 

As  soon  as  the  afternoon  service  was  over,  I  went  once 
more  to  the  Hall,  and  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room — 
a  great  faded  room,  in  which  the  prevailing  colour  was  a 
dingy  gold,  hence  called  the  yellow  drawing-room  when 


YOUNG    WEIR.  265 


the  house  had  more  than  one.  It  looked  down  upon  the 
lawn,  which,  although  little  expense  was  now  laid  out  on 
any  of  the  ornamental  adjuncts  of  the  Hall,  was  still  kept 
very  nice.  There  sat  Mrs  Oldcastle  reading,  with  her 
face  to  the  house.  A  little  way  farther  oft'.  Miss  Old- 
castle sat,  with  a  book  on  her  knee,  but  her  gaze  fixed 
01  the  wide-spread  landscape  before  her,  of  which,  how- 
ever, she  seemed  to  be  as  inobservant  as  of  her  book.  I 
caught  glimpses  of  Judy  flitting  hither  and  thither  among 
the  trees,  never  a  moment  in  one  place. 

Fearful  of  having  an  interview  with  the  old  lady  alone, 
which  was  not  likely  to  lead  to  what  I  wanted,  I  stepped 
from  a  window  which  was  open,  out  upon  the  terrace, 
and  thence  down  the  steps  to  the  lawn  below.  The  ser- 
vant had  just  informed  Mrs  Oldcastle  of  my  visit  when  I 
came  near.  She  drew  herself  up  in  her  chair,  and  evi- 
dently chose  to  regard  my  approach  as  an  intrusion. 

"  I  did  not  expect  a  visit  from  you  to-day,  Mr  Walton, 
you  will  allow  me  to  say." 

"  I  am  doing  Sunday  work,"  I  answered.  "Will  you 
kindly  tell  me  whether  you  were  in  London  on  Thursday 
last  1  But  stay,  allow  me  to  ask  Miss  Oldcastle  to  join 
us." 

Without  waiting  for  answer,  I  went  to  Miss  Oldcastle, 
and  begged  her  to  come  and  listen  to  something  in  which 
I  wanted  her  help.  She  rose  courteously  though  without 
cordiality,  and  accompanied  me  to  her  mother,  who  sat 
with  perfect  rigidity,  watching  us. 

"  Again  let  me  ask,"  I  said,  "  if  you  were  in  London 
on  Thursday." 


2'JO  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Though  I  addressed  the  old  lady,  the  answer  came 
from  her  daughter. 

*'  Yes,  we  were." 

"Were  you  in &  Co.'s,  in Street?" 

But  now  before  Miss  Oldcastle  could  reply,  her  mother 
ititerposed. 

"  Are  we  charged  with  shoplifting,  Mr  Walton?  Really, 
one  is  not  accustomed  to  such  cross-questioning — except 
from  a  lawyer." 

"  Have  patience  with  me  for  a  moment,"  I  returned. 
"  I  am  not  going  to  be  mysterious  for  more  than  two  or 
three  questions.  Please  tell  me  whether  you  were  in  that 
shop  or  not." 

"  I  believe  we  were,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  the  daughter, 

"  Did  you  buy  anything  V 

"  No.     We "  Miss  Oldcastle  began. 

"  Not  a  word  more,"  I  exclaimed  eagerly.  "  Come 
with  me  at  once." 

"What  ^0  you  mean,  Mr  Walton?"  said  the  mother, 
with  a  sort  of  cold  indignation,  while  the  daughter  looked 
surprised,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  impetuosity ;  but  much  is 
in  your  power  at  this  moment  The  son  of  one  of  my 
parishioners  has  come  home  in  trouble.  His  father, 
Thomas  Weir " 

"  Ah  1"  said  Mrs  Oldcastle,  in  a  tone  considerably  at 
strife  with  refinement.     But  I  took  no  notice. 

"  His  father  will  not  believe  his  story.  The  lad  thinks 
you  were  the  ladies  in  serving  whom  he  got  into  trouble. 


YOUNG    WEIR.  271 


I  am  so  confident  he  tells  the  truth,  that  I  want  Miss 
Oldcastle  to  be  so  kind  as  to  accompany  me  to  Weir's 
house " 

**  Really,  Mr  Walton,  I  am  astonished  at  your  making 
such  a  request ! "  exclaimed  Mrs  Oldcastle,  with  suitable 
emphasis  on  every  salient  syllable,  while  her  white  face 
flushed  with  anger.  "  To  ask  Miss  Oldcastle  to  accom- 
pany you  to  the  dwelling  of  the  ringleader  of  all  the 
canaille  of  the  neighbourhood  !" 

"  It  is  for  the  sake  of  justice,"  I  interposed. 

"  That  is  no  concern  of  ours.  Let  them  fight  it  out 
between  them.  I  am  sure  any  trouble  that  comes  of  it 
is  no  more  than  they  all  deserve.  A  low  family — men 
and  women  of  them." 

"  I  assure  you,  I  think  very  differently." 

"  I  daresay  you  do." 

"  But  neither  your  opinion  nor  mine  has  an3rthing  to 
do  with  the  matter." 

Here  I  turned  to  Miss  Oldcastle  and  went  on — 

"  It  is  a  chance  which  seldom  occurs  in  one's  life, 
Miss  Oldcastle — a  chance  of  setting  wrong  right  by  a 
word;  and  as  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  truth  and 
love,  I  beg  you  to  assist  me  with  your  presence  to  that 
end." 

I  would  have  spoken  more  strongly,  but  I  knew  that 
her  word  given  to  me  would  be  enough  without  her  pre- 
sence. At  the  same  time,  I  felt  not  only  that  there 
would  be  a  propriety  in  her  taking  a  personal  interest  in 
the  matter,  but  that  it  would  do  her  good,  and  tend  to 
create  a  favour  towards  each  other  in  some  of  my  flock 


272  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOODt 

between  whom  at  present  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  in 
common. 

But  at  my  last  words,  Mrs  Oldcastle  rose  to  her  feet 
no  longer  red — now  whiter  than  her  usual  whiteness 
with  passion. 

"  You  dare  to  persist !  You  take  advantage  of  your 
profession  to  persist  in  dragging  my  daughter  into  a  vile 
dispute  between  mechanics  of  the  lowest  class — against 
the  positive  command  of  her  only  parent !  Have  you 
no  respect  for  her  position  in  society? — for  her  sex] 
Mister  Walton,  you  act  in  a  manner  unworthy  of  your 
cloth." 

I  had  stood  looking  in  her  eyes  with  as  much  self- 
possession  as  I  could  muster.  And  I  believe  I  should 
have  borne  it  all  quietly,  but  for  that  last  word. 

If  there  is  one  epithet  I  hate  more  than  another,  it 
is  that  execrable  word  dofA — used  for  the  office  of  a 
clergyman.  I  have  no  time  to  set  forth  its  offence 
now.  If  my  reader  cannot  feel  it,  I  do  not  care  to 
make  him  feel  it.  Only  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  overcame 
my  temper. 

"  Madam,"  I  said,  "  I  owe  nothing  to  my  tailor.  But 
I  owe  God  my  whole  being,  and  my  neighbour  all  I 
can  do  for  him.  *  He  that  loveth  not  his  brotlier  is  a 
murderer/  or  murderess,  as  the  case  may  be." 

At  that  word  murderess,  her  face  became  livid,  and  she 
turned  away  without  reply.  By  this  time  her  daughter 
was  half  way  to  the  house.  She  followed  her.  And 
here  was  I  left  to  go  home,  with  the  full  knowledge  that, 
partly  from  trying  to  gain  too  much,  and  partly  from 


YOUNG    WEIR.  273 


losing  my  temper,  I  had  at  best  but  a  mangled  and  un- 
satisfactory testimony  to  carry  back  to  Thomas  Weir. 
Of  course  I  walked  away — round  the  end  of  the  house 
and  down  the  avenue ;  and  the  farther  I  went  the  more 
mortified  I  grew.  It  was  not  merely  the  shame  of  losing 
my  temper,  though  that  was  a  shame — and  with  a  woman 
too,  merely  because  she  used  a  common  epithet ! — but  I 
saw  that  it  must  appear  very  strange  to  the  carpenter 
that  I  was  not  able  to  give  a  more  explicit  account  of 
some  sort,  what  I  had  learned  not  being  in  the  least 
decisive  in  the  matter.  It  only  amounted  to  this,  that 
Mrs  and  Miss  Oldcastle  were  in  the  shop  on  the  very 
day  on  which  Weir  was  dismissed.  It  proved  that  so 
much  of  what  he  had  told  me  was  correct — nothing 
more.  And  if  I  tried  to  better  the  matter  by  explaining 
how  I  had  offended  them,  would  it  not  deepen  the  very 
hatred  I  had  hoped  to  overcome  1  In  fact,  I  stood  con- 
victed before  the  tribunal  of  my  own  conscience  of 
having  lost  all  the  certain  good  of  my  attempt,  in  part 
at  least  from  the  foolish  desire  to  produce  a  conviction 
of  Weir  rather  than  iu  Weir,  which  should  be  triumphant 
after  a  melodramatic  fashion,  and — must  I  confess  it  1 — 
should  punish  him  for  not  believing  in  his  son  when  1 
did ;  forgetting  in  my  miserable  selfishness  that  not  to 
believe  in  his  son  was  an  unspeakably  worse  punish- 
ment in  itself  than  any  conviction  or  consequent  shame 
brought  about  by  the  most  overwhelming  of  stage-effects. 
I  assure  my  reader,  I  felt  humiliated. 

Now  I  think  humiliation  is  a  very  different  condition 
of  mind  from  humility.     Humiliation  no  man  can  de- 


274  ANKALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

sire :  it  is  shame  and  torture.  Humility  is  the  true, 
right  condition  of  humanity — peaceful,  divine.  And  yet 
a  man  may  gladly  welcome  humiliation  when  it  comes, 
if  he  finds  that  with  fierce  shock  and  rude  revulsion  it 
has  turned  him  right  round,  with  his  face  away  from 
pride,  whither  he  was  travelling,  and  towards  humility, 
however  far  away  upon  the  horizon's  verge  she  may  sit 
waiting  for  him.  To  me,  however,  there  came  a  gentle 
and  not  therefore  less  effective  dissolution  of  the  bonds 
both  of  pride  and  humiliation ;  and  before  Weir  and  I 
met,  I  was  nearly  as  anxious  to  heal  his  wounded  spirit, 
as  I  was  to  work  justice  for  his  son. 

I  was  walking  slowly,  with  burning  cheek  and  down- 
cast eyes,  the  one  of  conflict,  the  other  of  shame  and 
defeat,  away  from  the  great  house,  which  seemed  to  be 
staring  after  me  down  the  avenue  with  all  its  window- 
eyes,  when  suddenly  my  deliverance  came.  At  a  some- 
what sharp  turn,  where  the  avenue  changed  into  a  wind- 
ing road.  Miss  Oldcastle  stood  waiting  for  me,  the  glow 
of  haste  upon  her  cheek,  and  the  finnness  of  resolution 
upon  her  lips.  Once  more  I  was  startled  by  her  sudden 
presence,  but  she  did  not  smile. 

"  Mr  Walton,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  I  would 
not  wiUing  refuse,  if  it  is,  as  you  say,  really  my  duty  to 
go  with  you." 

"  I  cannot  be  positive  about  that,"  I  answered.  "  I 
think  I  put  it  too  strongly.  But  it  would  be  a  consider- 
al)I(;  advantage,  I  think,  if  you  would  go  with  me  and  let 
me  ask  you  a  few  questions  in  the  presence  of  Thomas 
Weir.    It  will  have  more  effect  if  I  am  able  to  tell  him 


YOUNG    WEIR.  275 


that  I  have  only  learned  as  yet  that  you  were  in  the 
shop  on  that  day,  and  refer  him  to  you  for  the  rest." 

"  I  will  go." 

"  A  thousand  thanks.  But  how  did  you  manage 
to — r 

Here  I  stopped,  not  knowing  how  to  finish  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  You  are  surprised  that  I  came,  notwithstanding 
mamma's  objection  to  my  going?" 

"  I  confess  I  am.  I  should  not  have  been  surprised 
at  Judy's  doing  so,  now." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Do  you  think  obedience  to  parents  is  to  last  for 
ever  ]  The  honour  is,  of  course.  But  I  am  surely  old 
enough  to  be  right  in  following  my  conscience  at  least." 

"  You  mistake  me.  That  is  not  the  difficulty  at  all. 
Of  course  you  ought  to  do  what  is  right  against  the 
highest  authority  on  earth,  which  I  take  to  be  just  the 
parental.     What  I  am  surprised  at  is  your  courage." 

"  Not  because  of  its  degree,  only  that  it  is  mine  !" 

And  she  sighed. — She  was  quite  right,  and  I  did  not 
know  what  to  answer.     But  she  resumed. 

"  I  know  I  am  cowardly.  But  if  I  cannot  dare,  I  can 
bear.  Is  it  not  strange? — With  my  mother  looking  at 
me,  I  dare  not  say  a  word,  dare  hardly  move  against  her 
will.  And  it  is  not  always  a  good  will.  I  cannot  hon- 
our my  mother  as  I  would.  But  the  moment  her  eyes 
are  oft'  me,  I  can  do  anything,  knowing  the  consequences 
perfectly,  and  just  as  regardless  of  them ;  for,  as  I  tel^ 
you,  Mr  Walton,  I  can  endure ;  and  you  do  not  know 


276  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

^hat  that  might  come  to  mean  with  my  mother.  Once^ 
she  kept  me  shut  up  in  my  room,  and  sent  me  only  bread 
and  water,  for  a  whole  week  to  the  very  hour.  Not  that 
I  minded  that  much,  but  it  will  let  you  know  a  little  of 
my  position  in  my  own  home.  That  is  why  I  walked 
away  before  her.     I  saw  what  was  coming." 

And  Miss  Oldcastle  drew  herself  up  with  more  expres 
sion  of  pride  than  I  had  yet  seen  in  her,  revealing  l<)  me 
that  perhaps  I  had  hitherto  quite  misunderstood  the 
source  of  her  apparent  haughtiness.  I  could  not  reply 
for  indignation.  My  silence  must  have  been  the  cause 
of  what  she  said  next. 

"  Ah !  you  think  I  have  no  right  to  speak  so  about  my 
own  mother  !  Well !  well !  But  indeed  I  would  not  have 
done  so  a  month  ago." 

"If  I  am  silent.  Miss  Oldcastle,  it  is  that  my  sym- 
pathy is  too  strong  for  me.  There  are  mothers  and 
mothers.  And  for  a  mother  not  to  be  a  mother  is  too 
dreadful." 

She  made  no  reply.     I  resumed. 

"  It  will  seem  cruel,  perhaps ; — certainly  in  saying  it,  I 
lay  myself  open  to  the  rejoinder  that  talk  is  so  easy; — 
still  I  shall  feel  more  honest  when  I  have  said  it :  the 
only  thing  I  feel  should  be  altered  in  your  conduct — 
forgive  me — is  that  you  should  dare  your  mother.  Do 
not  think,  for  it  is  an  unfortunate  phrase,  that  my  mean- 
ing is  a  vulgar  one.  If  it  were,  I  should  at  least  know 
better  than  to  utter  it  to  you.  What  I  mean  is,  that  you 
ought  to  be  able  to  be  and  do  the  same  before  youi 
mother's  eyes,  that  you  are  and  do  when  she  is  out  0/ 


YOUNG    WEIR.  277 


sight.  I  mean  that  you  should  look  in  your  mother's 
eyes,  and  do  what  is  right" 

"  I  know  that — know  it  ivellP  (She  emphasized  the 
words  as  I  do.)  "  But  you  do  not  know  what  a  spell  she 
casts  upon  me ;  how  impossible  it  is  to  do  as  you  say." 

•*  Difficult,  1.  allow.  Impossible,  not  You  will  never 
be  free  till  you  do  so." 

"You  are  too  hard  upon  me.  Besides,  though  you 
will  scarcely  be  able  to  believe  it  now,  I  do  honour  her, 
and  cannot  help  feeling  that  by  doing  as  I  do,  I  avoid 
irreverence,  impertinence,  rudeness — whichever  is  the 
right  word  for  what  I  mean." 

"  I  understand  you  perfectly.  But  the  truth  is  more 
than  propriety  of  behaviour,  even  to  a  parent ;  and  in- 
deed has  in  it  a  deeper  reverence,  or  the  germ  of  it  at 
least,  than  any  adherence  to  the  mere  code  of  respect. 
If  you  once  did  as  I  want  you  to  do,  you  would  find  that 
in  reality  you  both  revered  and  loved  your  mother  more 
than  you  do  now." 

"You  may  be  right.  But  I  am  certain  you  speak 
without  any  real  idea  of  the  difficulty." 

"  That  may  be.  And  yet  what  I  say  remains  just  as 
true." 

"  How  could  I  meet  violence,  for  instance  1" 

"  Impossible!" 

Slie  returned  no  reply.  We  walked  in  silence  for  some 
minutes.     At  length  she  said, 

*'  My  mother's  self-will  amounts  to  madness,  I  do  be- 
lieve.   1  have  yet  to  learn  where  she  would  stop  of  herself." 

*'  All  self-will  is  madness,"  I  returned — stupidly  enough. 


278  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

For  what  is  the  use  of  making  general  remarks  M'hen  you 
have  a  terrible  concrete  before  you  ?  "  To  want  one's 
!)wn  way  just  and  only  because  it  is  one's  own  way  is  the 
height  of  madness." 

"  Perhaps.  But  when  madness  has  to  be  encountered 
as  if  it  were  sense,  it  makes  it  no  easier  to  know  that  it 
is  madness." 

"  Does  your  uncle  give  you  no  help  1" 

"  He !  Poor  man !  He  is  as  frightened  at  her  as  I 
am.  He  dares  not  even  go  away.  He  did  not  know 
what  he  was  coming  to  when  he  came  to  Oldcastle  Hall. 
Dear  uncle  !  I  owe  him  a  great  deal.  But  for  any  help 
of  that  sort,  he  is  of  no  more  use  than  a  child.  I  believe 
mamma  looks  upon  him  as  half  an  idiot  He  can  do 
anything  or  everything  but  help  one  to  live,  to  be  any- 
thing.    Oh  me !  I  am  so  tired  !" 

And  the /WW// lady,  as  I  had  thought  her,  perhaps  not 
incorrectly,  burst  out  crying. 

What  was  I  to  do  ]  I  did  not  know  in  the  least.  What 
I  said,  I  do  not  even  now  know.  But  by  this  time  we 
were  at  the  gate,  and  as  soon  as  we  had  passed  the 
guardian  monstrosities,  we  found  the  open  road  an  effec- 
tual antidote  to  tears.  When  we  came  within  sight  of 
the  old  house  where  Weir  lived.  Miss  Oldcastle  became 
again  a  little  curious  as  to  what  I  required  of  her. 

"  Trust  me,"  I  said.  "  There  is  nothing  mysterious 
about  it  Only  I  prefer  the  truth  to  come  out  fresh  in 
the  ears  of  the  man  most  concerned." 

"  I  do  trust  you,"  she  answered.  And  we  knocked  ai 
the  house-door. 


yOUNG    WEIR.  279 


Thomas  Weir  himself  opened  the  door,  with  a  candle 
in  his  hand.  He  looked  very  much  astonished  to  see 
his  lady-visitor.  He  asked  us,  politely  enough,  to  walk 
jp-stairs,  and  ushered  us  into  the  large  room  I  have 
already  described.  There  sat  the  old  man,  as  I  had  first 
seen  him,  by  the  side  of  the  fire.  He  received  us  with 
moie  than  politeness — with  courtesy ;  and  I  could  not 
help  glancing  at  Miss  Oldcastle  to  see  what  impression 
this  family  of  "low,  free-thinking  republicans"  made 
upon  her.  It  was  easy  to  discover  that  the  impression 
was  of  favourable  surprise.  But  I  was  as  much  surprised 
at  her  behaviour  as  she  was  at  theirs.  Not  a  haughty 
tone  was  to  be  heard  in  her  voice ;  not  a  haughty  move- 
ment to  be  seen  in  her  form.  She  accepted  the  chair 
offered  her,  and  sat  down,  perfectly  at  home,  by  the  fire- 
side, only  that  she  turned  towards  me,  waiting  for  what 
explanation  I  might  think  proper  to  give. 

Before  I  had  time  to  speak,  however,  old  Mr  Weir 
broke  the  silence. 

"  I  've  been  telling  Tom,  sir,  as  I  've  told  him  many 
a  time  afore,  as  how  he 's  a  deal  too  hard  with  his  chil- 
dren." 

"  Father!"  interrupted  Thomas,  angrily. 

"  Have  patience  a  bit,  my  boy,"  persisted  the  old 
man,  turning  again  towards  me. — "  Now,  sir,  he  won't 
even  hear  young  Tom's  side  of  the  story ;  and  I  say  that 
boy  won't  tell  him  no  lie  if  he  's  the  same  boy  he  weni 
away." 

"  I  tell  you,  father,"  again  began  Thomas ;  but  thii 
time  I  interposed,  to  prevent  useless  talk  beforehand. 


28o  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Thomas,"  I  said,  "  listen  to  me.  I  have  heard  youi 
son's  side  of  the  story.  Because  of  something  he  said, 
I  went  to  Miss  Oldcastle,  ^ind  asked  her  whether  she 
was  in  his  late  master  s  shop  last  Thursday.  That  is  all 
I  have  asked  her,  and  all  she  has  told  me  is  that  she 
was.  I  know  no  more  than  you  what  she  is  going  to 
reply  to  my  questions  now,  but  I  have  no  doubt  her 
answers  will  correspond  to  your  son's  story. 

I  then  put  my  questions  to  Miss  Oldcastle,  whose 
answers  amounted  to  this  : — That  they  had  wanted  to 
buy  a  shawl;  that  they  had  seen  none  good  enough; 
that  they  had  left  the  shop  without  buying  anything; 
and  that  they  had  been  waited  upon  by  a  young  man, 
who,  while  perfectly  polite  and  attentive  to  their  wants, 
did  not  seem  to  have  the  ways  or  manners  of  a  London 
shop- lad. 

I  then  told  them  the  story  as  young  Tom  had  related 
it  to  me,  and  asked  if  his  sister  was  not  in  the  house  and 
might  not  go  to  fetch  him.  But  she  was  with  her  sister 
Catherine. 

"  I  think,  Mr  Walton,  if  you  have  done  with  me,  I 
ought  to  go  home  now,"  said  Miss  Oldcastle. 

"  Certainly,"  I  answered.  "  I  will  take  you  home  at 
once.     I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  coming." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  rising  with  difficulty, 
"  we  're  obliged  both  to  you  and  the  lady  more  than  we 
can  telL  To  take  such  a  deal  of  trouble  for  us  !  But 
you  see,  sir,  you're  one  of  them  as  thinks  a  man's  got 
his  duty  to  do  one  way  or  another,  whether  he  be  clergy- 
man or  carpenter.     God  bless  you,  Miss.     You're  of 


YOUNG    WEIR.  281 


the  right  sort,  which  you'll  excuse  an  old  man,  Miss, 
as  '11  never  see  ye  again  till  ye  've  got  the  wings  as  ye 
ought  to  have." 

Miss  Oldcastle  smiled  very  sweetly,  and  answered  no- 
thing, but  shook  hands  with  them  both,  and  bade  them 
good-night.  Weir  could  not  speak  a  word;  he  could 
hardly  even  lift  his  eyes.  But  a  red  spot  glowed  on 
each  of  his  pale  cheeks,  making  him  look  very  like  his 
daughter  Catherine,  and  I  could  see  Miss  Oldcastle 
wince  and  grow  red  too  with  the  gripe  he  gave  her 
hand.     But  she  smiled  again  none  the  less  sweetly. 

"  I  will  see  Miss  Oldcastle  home,  and  then  go  back 
to  my  house  and  bring  the  boy  with  me,"  I  said,  as  we 
left. 

It  was  some  time  before  either  of  us  spoke.  The  sun 
was  setting,  the  sky  the  earth  and  the  air  lovely  with 
rosy  light,  and  the  world  full  of  that  peculiar  calm  which 
belongs  to  the  evening  of  the  day  of  rest.  Surely  the 
world  ought  to  wake  better  on  the  morrow. 

"  Not  very  dangerous  people,  those,  Miss  Oldcastle  1" 
I  said,  at  last. 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  taking  me  to  see  them," 
she  returned,  cordially. 

"  You  won't  believe  all  you  may  happen  to  hear 
against  the  working  people  now  ]" 

"  I  never  did." 

"  There  are  ill-conditioned,  cross-grained,  low-minded, 
selfish,  unbelieving  people  amongst  them.  God  knows 
it  But  there  are  ladies  and  gentlemen  amongst  them 
too." 


282  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  That  old  man  is  a  gentleman." 

"  He  is.  And  the  only  way  to  teach  them  all  to  be 
such,  is  to  be  such  to  them.  The  man  who  does  not 
show  himself  a  gentleman  to  the  working  people — ^why 
should  I  call  them  the  poor  1  some  of  them  are  better 
off  than  many  of  the  rich,  for  they  can  pay  their  debts, 
and  do  it " 

I  had  forgot  the  beginning  of  my  sentence. 

"  You  were  saying  that  the  man  who  does  not  show 
himself  a  gentleman  to  the  poor " 

"  Is  no  gentleman  at  all — only  a  gentle  without  the 
man ;  and  if  you  consult  my  namesake  old  Izaak,  you 
will  find  what  that  is." 

"  I  will  look.  I  know  your  way  now.  You  won't  tell 
me  anything  I  can  find  out  for  myself.'* 

"  Is  it  not  the  best  way?" 

"  Yes.  Because,  for  one  thing,  you  find  out  so  much 
more  than  you  look  for." 

"  Certainly  that  has  been  my  own  experience." 

"Are  you  a  descendant  of  Izaak  Walton?" 

**  No.  I  believe  there  are  none.  But  I  hope  I  have 
so  much  of  his  spirit  that  I  can  do  two  things  like 
him." 

«  Tell  me." 

"  Live  in  the  country,  though  I  was  not  brought  up  in 
It ;  and  know  a  good  man  when  I  see  him." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  asked  me  to  go  to-night.* 

"  If  people  only  knew  their  own  brothers  and  sisters, 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  would  not  be  far  oft" 

I  do  not  think  Miss  Oldcastle  quite  liked  this,  for  sh« 


YOUNG    WEIR.  283 


was  silent  thereafter;  though  I  allow  that  her  silence 
was  not  conclusive.  And  we  had  now  come  close  to 
the  house. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  I  said. 

"In  what?" 

*•'  To  bear  what  I  fear  is  waiting  you." 

"  I  told  you  I  was  equal  to  that.  It  is  where  we  are 
unequal  that  we  want  help.  You  may  have  to  give  if 
me  some  day — who  knows  V 

I  left  her  most  unwillingly  in  the  porch,  just  as  Sarah 
(the  white  wolf)  had  her  hand  on  the  door,  rejoicing  in 
my  heart,  however,  over  her  last  words. 

My  reader  will  not  be  surprised,  after  all  this,  if, 
before  I  get  very  much  further  with  my  story,  I  have  to 
confess  that  I  loved  Miss  Oldcastle. 

When  young  Tom  and  I  entered  the  room,  his  grand- 
father rose  and  tottered  to  meet  him.  His  father  made 
one  step  towards  him  and  then  hesitated.  Of  all  con- 
ditions of  the  human  mind,  that  of  being  ashamed  of 
himself  must  have  been  the  strangest  to  Thomas  Weir. 
The  man  had  never  in  his  life,  I  believe,  done  anything 
mean  or  dishonest,  and  therefore  he  had  had  less  fre- 
quent opportunities  than  most  people  of  being  ashamed 
of  himself.  Hence  his  fall  had  been  from  another  pin- 
nacle— that  of  pride.  When  a  man  thinks  it  such  a  fine 
thing  to  have  done  right,  he  might  almost  as  well  have 
done  wrong,  for  it  shows  he  considers  right  something 
exira,  not  absolutely  essential  to  human  existence,  not 
the  life  of  a  man.  I  call  it  Thomas  Weir's  fall;  for 
surely  to  behave  in  an  unfatherly  manner  to  both  daugU- 


284  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

ter  and  son — the  one  sinful,  and  therefore  needing  the 
more  tenderness — the  other  innocent,  and  therefore 
claiming  justification — and  to  do  so  from  piide,  and 
hurt  pride,  was  fall  enough  in  one  history,  worse  a  great 
deal  than  many  sins  that  go  by  harder  names ;  for  tlie 
world's  judgment  of  wrong  does  not  exactly  correspond 
with  the  reality.  And  now  if  he  was  humbled  in  the 
one  instance,  there  would  be  room  to  hope  he  might 
become  humble  in  the  other.  But  I  had  soon  to  see 
that,  for  a  time,  his  pride,  driven  from  its  entrenchment 
against  his  son,  only  retreated,  with  all  its  forces,  into 
the  other  against  his  daughter. 

Before  a  moment  had  passed,  justice  overcame  so  far 
that  he  held  out  his  hand  and  said  : — 

"  Come,  Tom,  let  by-gones  be  by-gones." 

But  I  stepped  between. 

-"  Thomas  Weir,"  I  said,  "  I  have  too  great  a  regard 
for  you — and  you  know  I  dare  not  flatter  you — to  let 
you  off"  this  way,  or  rather  leave  you  to  think  you  have 
done  your  duty  when  you  have  not  done  the  half  of  it. 
You  have  done  your  son  a  wrong,  a  great  wrong.  Hoav 
can  you  claim  to  be  a  gentleman — I  say  nothing  of  be- 
ing a  Christian,  for  therein  you  make  no  claim — how,  I 
say,  can  you  claim  to  act  like  a  gentleman,  if,  having 
done  a  man  wrong — his  being  your  own  son  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  matter  one  way  or  other,  except  that  it 
ought  to  make  you  see  your  duty  more  easily — having 
done  him  wrong,  why  don't  you  beg  his  pardon,  I  say, 
like  a  man  1 " 

He  did  not  move  a  step.     But  young  Tom  stepped 


VOUNG    WEIR,  28? 


hurriedly  forward,  and  catching  his  father's  hand  in  both 
of  his,  cried  out : 

"  My  father  shan't  beg  my  pardon.  I  beg  yours, 
father,  for  everything  I  ever  did  to  displease  you,  bu« 
I  tiiastit  to  blame  in  this.     I  wasn't,  indeed." 

"  Tom,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  hard  man,  over- 
come at  last.  "  And  now,  sir,"  he  added,  turning  to  me, 
"  will  you  let  by-gones  be  by-gones  between  my  boy  and 
me?" 

There  was  just  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  his  tone. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  I  replied.  "  But  I  want  just  a 
word  with  you  in  the  shop  before  I  go." 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered,  stiffly ;  and  I  bade  the  old 
and  the  young  man  good  night,  and  followed  him  down 
stairs. 

"  Thomas,  my  friend,"  I  said,  when  we  got  into  the 
shop,  laying  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  will  you  after 
this  say  that  God  has  dealt  hardly  with  you  %  There 's 
a  son  for  any  man  God  ever  made  to  give  thanks  for  on 
his  knees  !  Thomas,  you  have  a  strong  sense  of  fair 
play  in  your  heart,  and  you  give  fair  play  neither  to  your  • 
own  son  nor  yet  to  God  himself.  You  close  your  doors 
and  brood  over  your  own  miseries,  and  the  wrongs 
people  have  done  you ;  whereas,  if  you  would  but  open 
th»)se  doors,  you  might  come  out  into  the  light  of  God's 
tiiith,  and  see  that  His  heart  is  as  clear  as  sunlight  to- 
wards you.  'You  won't  believe  this,  and  therefore  natur- 
ally you  can't  quite  believe  that  there  is  a  God  at  all ; 
for,  indeed,  a  being  that  was  not  all  light  would  be  no 
God  at  all.     If  you  would  but  let  Him  teach  you,  you 


286  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOVK  HOOD. 

would  find  your  perplexities  melt  away  like  the  snow  in 
spring,  till  you  could  hardly  believe  you  had  ever  felt 
them.  No  arguing  will  convince  you  of  a  God ;  but  let 
Him  once  come  in,  and  all  argument  will  be  tenfold 
useless  to  convince  you  that  there  is  no  God.  Give 
God  justice.     Try  Him  as  I  have  said. — Good  night" 

He  did  not  return  my  farewell  with  a  single  word. 
Put  the  grasp  of  his  strong  rough  hand  was  more  earnest 
and  loving  even  than  usual.  I  could  not  see  his  face, 
for  it  was  almost  dark ;  but,  indeed,  I  felt  that  it  was 
better  I  could  not  see  it. 

I  went  home  as  peaceful  in  my  heart  as  the  night 
whose  curtains  God  had  drawn  about  the  earth  that  it 
might  sleep  till  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MY  PUPIL. 

|LTHOUGH  I  do  happen  to  know  how  Miss 
Oldcastle  fared  that  night  after  I  left  her,  the 
painful  record  is  not  essential  to  my  story. 
Besides,  I  have  hitherto  recorded  only  those 
things  "  quorum  pars  magna" — or  minima^  as  the  case 
may  be — "  fui."  There  is  one  exception,  old  Weir's 
story,  for  the  introduction  of  which  my  reader  cannot  yet 
see  the  artistic  reason.  For  whether  a  story  be  real  in 
fact,  or  only  real  in  meaning,  there  must  always  be  an 
idea,  or  artistic  model  in  the  brain,  after  which  it  is  fash- 
ioned :  in  the  latter  case  one  of  invention,  in  the  former 
case  one  of  choice. 

In  the  middle  of  the  following  week  I  was  returning 
trom  a  visit  I  had  paid  to  Tomkins  and  his  wife,  when  I 
met,  in  the  only  street  of  the  village,  my  good  and  hon- 
oured friend  Dr  Duncan.  Of  course  I  saw  him  often — 
and  I  beg  my  reader  to  remember  that  this  is  no  diary, 


288  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

but  only  a  gathering  together  of  some  of  the  more  re- 
markable facts  of  my  history,  admitting  of  being  ideally 
grouped — but  this  time  I  recall  distinctly  because  the 
interview  bore  upon  many  things. 

*'  Well,  Dr  Duncan,"  T  said,  "  busy  as  usual  fighting 
the  devil." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Mr  Walton,"  returned  the  doctor — and 
a  kind  word  from  him  went  a  long  way  into,  my  heart — 
"  I  know  what  you  mean.  You  fight  the  devil  fi"om  the 
inside,  and  I  fight  him  from  the  outside.  My  chance  is 
a  poor  one," 

"  It  would  be,  perhaps,  if  yo5  were  confined  to  outside 
remedies.  But  what  an  opportunity  your  profession  gives 
you  of  attacking  the  enemy  from  the  inside  as  well! 
And  you  have  this  advantage  over  us,  that  no  man  can 
say  it  belongs  to  your  profession  to  say  such  things,  and 
therefore  disregard  them." 

"  Ah,  Mr  Walton,  I  have  too  great  a  respect  for  youi 

-profession  to  dare  to  interfere  with  it.     The  doctor  in 

*  Macbeth,'  you  know,  could 

*  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased. 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow. 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuff'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart'  " 

"  What  a  memory  you  have !  But  you  don't  think  I 
can  do  that  any  more  than  you  1" 

"  You  know  the  best  medicine  to  give,  anyhow.  I 
wish  I  always  did.  But  you  see  we  have  no  theriaca 
now." 


MY    PUPIL.  289 

"  Well,  we  have.  For  the  Lord  says,  '  Come  unto  me, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest' " 

"  There  !  I  told  you  !  That  will  meet  all  diseases." 
"  Strangely  now,  there  comes  into  my  mind  a  line  oi 
Chaucer,  with  which  I  will  make  a  small  return  for  your 
quotation  from  Shakespeare ;  you  have  mentioned  ^/le- 
riaca;  and  I,  without  thinking  of  this  line,  quoted  our 
Lord's  words.  Chaucer  brings  the  two  together,  for  the 
word  triacle  is  merely  a  corruption  of  thenaca,  the  unfail- 
ing cure  for  every  thing. 

*  Crist,  which  that  is  to  every  harm  triacle,'  " 

"  That  is  delightful :  I  thank  you.  And  that  is  in 
Chaucer'?" 

"  Yes.     In  the  Man-of-Law's  Tale." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  how  I  was  able  to  quote  so  correctly 
from  Shakespeare  1  I  have  just  come  from  referring  to 
the  passage.  And  I  mention  that  because  I  want  to  tell 
you  what  made  me  think  of  the  passage.  I  had  been  to 
see  poor  Catherine  Weir.  I  think  she  is  not  long  for 
this  world.  She  has  a  bad  cough,  and  I  fear  her  lungs 
are  going." 

"  I  am  concerned  to  hear  that.  I  considered  her  very 
delicate,  and  am  not  surprised.  But  I  wish,  I  do  wish, 
I  had  got  a  little  hold  of  her  before,  that  I  might  be  of 
some  use  to  her  now.  Is  she  in  immediate  danger,  do 
you  think  1" 

"  No.  I  do  not  think  so.  But  I  have  no  expectation 
of  her  recovery.  Very  likely  she  will  just  live  through 
the  winter  and  die  in  the  spring.     Those  patients  so 


apO  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NKIGHBOURHOOD. 

often  go  as  the  flowers  come  I  All  her  coughing,  pool 
woman,  will  not  cleanse  her  stuffed  bosom.  The  perilous 
stuff  weighs  on  her  heart,  as  Shakespeare  says,  as  well  as 
on  her  lungs." 

"  Ah,  dear !  What  is  it,  doctor,  that  weighs  upon  her 
heart?  Is  it  shame,  or  what  is  if?  for  she  is  so  uncom- 
municative that  I  hardly  know  anything  at  all  about  her 
yet." 

**  I  cannot  telL     She  has  the  faculty  of  silence." 

"  But  do  not  think  I  complain  that  she  has  not  made 
me  her  confessor.  I  only  mean  that  if  she  would  talk 
at  all,  one  would  have  a  chance  of  knowing  something 
of  the  state  of  her  mind,  and  so  might  give  her  some 
help." 

"  Perhaps  she  will  break  down  all  at  once,  and  open 
her  mind  to  you.  I  have  not  told  her  she  is  dying.  I 
think  a  medical  man  ought  at  least  to  be  quite  sure  be- 
fore he  dares  to  say  such  a  thing.  1  have  known  a  long 
life  injured,  to  human  view  at  least,  by  the  medical  ver- 
dict in  youth  of  ever  imminent  death." 

"  Certainly  one  has  no  right  to  say  what  God  is  going 
to  do  with  any  one  till  he  knows  it  beyond  a  doubt 
Illness  has  its  own  peculiar  mission,  independent  of  any 
association  with  coming  death,  and  may  often  work  bet- 
ter when  mingled  with  the  hope  of  life.  I  mean  we  must 
take  care  of  presumption  when  we  measure  God's  plans 
by  our  theories.  But  could  you  not  suggest  something, 
Doctor  Duncan,  to  guide  me  in  trying  to  do  my  duty  by 
her?" 

**I  cannot.    You  see  you  don't  know  what  she  is 


MY    PUPIL.  291 

thinking;  and  till  you  know  that,  I  presume  you  will 
agree  with  me  tliat  all  is  an  aim  in  the  dark.  How  can 
I  prescribe,  \vithout  some  diagnosis]  It  is  just  one  o\ 
those  few  cases  in  which  one  would  like  to  have  the 
authority  of  the  Catholic  priests  to  urge  confession  with. 
I  do  not  think  anything  will  save  her  life,  as  we  say,  but 
you  have  taught  some  of  us  to  think  of  the  life  that  be- 
longs to  the  spirit  as  the  life ;  and  I  do  believe  confes- 
sion would  do  everything  for  that" 

"  Yes,  if  made  to  God.  But  I  will  grant  that  com- 
munication of  one's  sorrows  or  even  sins  to  a  wise 
brother  of  mankind  may  help  to  a  deeper  confession  to 
the  Father  in  heaven.  But  I  have  no  wish  for  authority 
in  the  matter.  Let  us  see  whether  the  Spirit  of  God 
working  in  her  may  not  be  quite  as  powerful  for  a  final 
illumination  of  her  being  as  the  fiat  confessio  of  a  priest. 
I  have  no  confidence  in  forcing  in  the  moral  or  spiritual 
garden.  A  hothouse  development  must  necessarily  be 
a  sickly  one,  rendering  the  plant  unfit  for  the  normal 
life  of  the  open  air.  Wait.  We  must  not  hurry  things. 
She  will  perhaps  come  to  me  of  herself  before  long. 
But  I  will  call  and  inquire  after  her." 

We  parted ;  and  I  went  at  once  to  Catherine  Weir's 
shop.  She  received  me  much  as  usual,  which  was  hardly 
to  be  called  receiving  at  all.  Perhaps  there  was  a  doubt- 
ful shadow,  not  oi  more  cordiality,  but  of  less  repulsion 
in  it.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  a  stony  brilliance,  and  the 
flame  of  the  fire  that  was  consuming  her  glowed  upon 
her  cheeks  more  brightly,  I  thought,  than  ever;  but  that 
might  be  fancy,  occasioned  by  what  the  doctor  had  said 


892  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

about  her.  Her  hand  trembled,  but  her  demeanour  was 
perfectly  calm. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  complaining,  Miss  Weir," 
I  said. 

"  I  suppose  Dr  Duncan  told  you  so,  sir.  But  I  am 
quite  well.  I  did  not  send  for  him.  He  called  of  him- 
self, and  wanted  to  persuade  me  I  was  ill." 

I  understood  that  she  felt  injured  by  his  interference. 

"  You  should  attend  to  his  advice,  though.  He  is  a 
prudent  man,  and  not  in  the  least  given  to  alarming 
people  without  cause." 

She  returned  no  answer.     So  I  tried  another  subject 

"  What  a  fine  fellow  your  brother  is  ! " 

"  Yes ;  he  grows  very  much." 

"  Has  your  father  found  another  place  for  him  yet  1 " 

"  I  don't  know.  My  father  never  tells  me  about  any 
of  his  doings." 

"  But  don't  you  go  and  talk  to  him,  sometimes  1 " 

"  No.     He  does  not  care  to  see  me." 

"  I  am  going  there  now :  will  you  come  with  me  1 " 

"  Thank  you.     I  never  go  where  I  am  not  wanted." 

"  But  it  is  not  right  that  father  and  daughter  should 
live  as  you  do.  Suppose  he  may  not  have  been  so  kind 
to  you  as  he  ought,  you  should  not  cherish  resentment 
against  him  for  it.  That  only  makes  matters  worse,  you 
know." 

"  I  never  said  to  human  being  that  he  had  been  uu- 
kind  to  me." 

"  And  yet  you  let  every  person  in  the  village  know  it." 

"Howl" 


MY    PUPIU  29J 

Her  eye  had  no  longer  the  stony  glitter.  It  flashed 
now.  ^ 

"  You  are  never  seen  together.  You  scarcely  speak 
when  you  meet.  Neither  of  you  crosses  the  other's 
threshold." 

"  It  is  not  my  fault." 

"  It  is  not  all  your  fault,  I  know.  But  do  you  think 
you  can  go  to  a  heaven  at  last  where  you  will  be  able 
to  keep  apart  from  each  other,  he  in  his  house  and  you 
in  your  house,  without  any  sign  that  it  was  through  this 
father  on  earth  that  you  were  born  into  the  world  which 
the  Father  in  heaven  redeemed  by  the  gift  of  His  own. 
Son?" 

She  was  silent ;  and,  after  a  pause,  I  went  on. 

"  I  believe,  in  my  heart,  that  you  love  your  father.  I 
could  not  believe  otherwise  of  you.  And  you  will  never 
be  happy  till  you  have  made  it  up  with  him.  Have  you 
done  him  no  wrong?" 

At  these  words,  her  face  turned  white — with  anger,  I 
could  see — all  but  those  spots  on  her  cheek-bones,  which 
shone  out  in  dreadful  contrast  to  the  deathly  paleness  of 
the  rest  of  her  face.  Then  the  returning  blood  surged 
violently  from  her  heart,  and  the  red  spots  were  lost  in 
one  crimson  glow.  She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but 
apparently  changing  her  mind,  turned  and  walked 
haughtily  out  of  the  shop  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

I  waited,  hoping  she  would  recover  herself  and  re- 
turn; but,  after  ten  minutes  had  passed,  I  thought  it 
better  to  go  away. 


294  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

As  I  had  told  her,  I  was  going  to  her  father's  shop 
There  I  was  received  very  differently.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain softness  in  the  manner  of  the  carpenter  which  I  had 
not  observed  before,  with  the  same  heartiness  in  the 
shake  of  his  hand  which  had  accompanied  my  last 
leave-taking.  I  had  purposely  allowed  ten  days  to 
elapse  before  I  called  again,  to  give  time  for  the  un- 
pleasant feelings  associated  with  my  interference  to 
vanish.  And  now  I  had  something  in  my  mind  about 
young  Tom. 

"  Have  you  got  anything  for  your  boy  yet,  Thomas  1 " 
,  "  Not  yet,  sir.  There 's  time  enough.  I  don't  want 
to  part  with  him  just  yet  There  he  is,  taking  his  turn 
at  what 's  going.     Tom  ! " 

And  from  the  farther  end  of  the  large  shop,  where  I 
had  not  observed  him,  now  approached  young  Tom,  in 
a  canvas  jacket,  looking  quite  like  a  workman. 

"Well,  Tom,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  can  turn  your 
hand  to  anything." 

"  I  must  be  a  stupid,  sir,  if  I  couldn't  handle  my 
father's  tools,"  returned  the  lad. 

**  I  don't  know  that  quite.  I  am  not  just  prepared  to 
admit  it  for  my  own  sake.  My  father  is  a  lawyer,  and  I 
never  could  read  a  chapter  in  one  of  his  books — his 
tools,  you  know." 

"  Perhaps  you  never  tried,  sir." 

"  Indeed,  I  did ;  and  no  doubt  I  could  have  done  it 
if  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  it  But  I  never  felt  in- 
clined to  finish  the  page.  And  that  reminds  me  why  1 
called  to-day.    Thomas,  I  know  that  lad  of  yours  is  fond 


MY    PUPIL.  295 

of  reading.  Can  you  spare  him  from  his  work  for  an 
hour  or  so  before  breakfast?" 

"  To-morrow,  sir  1" 

"  To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,"  I  an- 
swered ;  "  and  there 's  Shakespeare  for  you." 

"  Of  course,  sir,  whatever  you  wish,"  said  Thomas, 
with  a  perplexed  look,  in  which  pleasure  seemed  to  long 
for  confirmation,  and  to  be,  till  that  came,  afraid  to  put 
its  "  native  semblance  on." 

"  I  want  to  give  him  some  direction  in  his  reading. 
When  a  man  is  fond  of  any  tools,  and  can  use  them,  it 
is  worth  while  showing  him  how  to  use  them  better." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir  !"  exclaimed  Tom,  his  face  beam- 
ing with  delight. 

"  That  is  kind  of  you,  sir !  Tom,  you  're  a  made 
man  !"  cried  the  father. 

"  So,"  I  went  on,  "  if  you  will  let  him  come  to  me  for 
an  hour  every  morning,  till  he  gets  another  place,  say 
from  eight  to  nine,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  for  him." 

Tom's  face  was  as  red  with  delight  as  his  sister's  had 
been  with  anger.  And  I  left  the  shop  somewhat  con- 
soled for  the  pain  I  had  given  Catherine,  which  grieved 
me  without  making  me  sorry  that  I  had  occasioned  it. 

I  had  intended  to  try  to  do  something  from  the 
father's  side  towards  a  reconciliation  with  his  daughter. 
But  no  sooner  had  I  made  up  my  proposal  for  Tom 
than  I  saw  I  had  blocked  up  my  own  way  towards  my 
more  important  end.  For  I  could  not  bear  to  seem  to 
offer  to  bribe  him  even  to  allow  me  to  do  him  good. 
Nor  would  he  see  that  it  was  for  his  good  and  his 


296  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

daughter's — not  at  first.  The  first  impression  would  be 
that  I  had  a  professional  end  to  gain ,  that  the  recon- 
cihng  of  father  and  daughter  was  a  sort  of  parish  busi- 
ness of  mine,  and  that  I  had  smoothed  the  way  to  it  by 
offering  a  gift — an  intellectual  one,  true,  but  not,  there- 
fore, the  less  a  gift  in  the  eyes  of  Thomas,  who  had  a 
g/eat  respect  for  books.  This  was  just  what  would 
irritate  such  a  man,  and  I  resolved  to  say  nothing  about 
it,  but  bide  my  time. 

When  Tom  came,  I  asked  him  if  he  had  read  any  of 
Wordsworth.  For  I  always  give  people  what  I  like  my- 
self, because  that  must  be-  wherein  I  can  best  help  them, 
I  was  anxious,  too,  to  find  out  what  he  was  capable  of. 
And  for  this,  anything  that  has  more  than  a  surface 
meaning  will  do.  I  had  no  doubt  about  the  lad's  in- 
tellect, and  now  I  wanted  to  see  what  there  was  deeper 
than  the  intellect  in  him. 

He  said  he  had  not. 

I  therefore  chose  one  of  Wordsworth's  sonnets,  not 
one  of  his  best  by  any  means,  but  suitable  for  my  pur- 
pose— the  one  entitled,  "  Composed  during  a  Storm." 
This  I  gave  him  to  read,  telling  him  to  let  me  know 
when  he  considered  that  he  had  mastered  the  meaning 
of  it,  and  sat  down  to  my  own  studies.  I  remember  I 
was  then  reading  the  Anglo-Saxon  Gospels.  I  think  it 
was  fully  half-an-hour  before  Tom  rose  and  gently 
approached  my  place.  I  had  not  been  uneasy  about 
the  experiment  after  ten  minutes  had  passed,  and  after 
that  time  was  doubled,  I  felt  certain  of  some  measure  ot 
success.     This  may  possibly  puzzle  my  reader;  but  I 


MY    PUPIL.  29; 

will  explain.  It  was  clear  that  Tom  did  not  understand 
the  sonnet  at  first ;  and  I  was  not  in  the  least  certain 
that  he  would  come  to  understand  it  by  any  exertion  of 
his  intellect,  without  further  experience.  But  what  I 
was  delighted  to  be  made  sure  of  was  that  Tom  at  least 
knew  that  he  did  not  know.  For  that  is  the  very  next 
step  to  knowing.  Indeed,  it  may  be  said  to  be  a  more 
valuable  gift  than  the  other,  being  of  general  applica- 
tion; for  some  quick  people  will  understand  many  things 
very  easily,  but  when  they  come  to  a  thing  that  is  be- 
yond their  present  reach,  will  fancy  they  see  a  mean- 
ing in  it,  or  invent  one,  or  even — which  is  far  worse — 
pronounce  it  nonsense ;  and,  indeed,  show  themselves 
capable  of  any  device  for  getting  out  of  the  difficulty, 
except  seeing  and  confessing  to  themselves  that  they  are 
not  able  to  understand  it.  Possibly  this  sonnet  might 
be  beyond  Tom  now,  but,  at  least,  there  was  great  hope 
that  he  saw,  or  believed,  that  there  must  be  something 
beyond  him  in  it  I  only  hoped  that  he  would  not  fall 
upon  some  wrong  interpretation,  seeing  he  was  brooding 
over  it  so  long. 

"  Well,  Tom,"  I  said,  "  have  you  made  it  out  T 
"  I  can't  say  I  have,  sir.  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  very  stupid, 
for  I  've  tried  hard.  I  must  just  ask  you  to  tell  me  what 
it  means.  But  I  must  tell  you  one  thing,  sir :  every 
time  I  read  it  over — twenty  times,  I  daresay — I  thought 
I  was  lying  on  my  mother's  grave,  as  I  lay  that  terrible 
night;  and  then  at  the  end  there  you  were  standing 
over  me  and  sapng,  *  Can  I  do  anything  to  help  you?' " 
I  was  struck  with  astonishment     For  here,  in  a  won- 


298  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

derful  manner,  I  saw  the  imagination  outrunning  the 
intellect,  and  manifesting  to  the  heart  what  the  brain 
could  not  yet  understand.  It  indicated  undeveloped 
gifts  of  a  far  higher  nature  than  those  belonging  to  the 
mere  power  of  understanding  alone.  Por  there  was  a 
hidden  sympathy  of  the  deepest  kind  between  the  life 
experience  of  the  lad,  and  the  embodiment  of  such  life 
experience  on  the  part  of  the  poet.     But  he  went  on  : 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,  I  ought  to  have  been  at  my  prayers, 
then,  but  I  wasn't;  so  I  didn't  deserve  you  to  come. 
But  don't  you  think  God  is  sometimes  better  to  us  than 
we  deserve?" 

"  He  is  just  everything  to  us,  Tom ;  and  we  don't  and 
can't  deserve  anything.  Now  I  will  try  to  explain  the 
sonnet  to  you.'* 

I  had  alwajTs  had  an  impulse  to  teach ;  not  for  the 
teaching's  sake,  for  that,  regarded  as  the  attempt  to  fill 
skulls  with  knowledge,  had  always  been  to  me  a  desolate 
dreariness ;  but  the  moment  I  saw  a  sign  of  hunger,  an 
indication  of  readiness  to  receive,  I  was  invariably  seized 
with  a  kind  of  passion  for  giving.  I  now  proceeded  to 
explain  the  sonnet.  Having  done  so,  nearly  as  well  as 
I  could,  Tom  said : 

"It  is  very  strange,  sir;  but  now  that  I  have  heard 
you  say  what  the  poem  means,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known 
it  all  the  time,  though  I  could  not  say  it." 

Here  at  least  was  no  common  mind.  The  reader  will 
not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  the  hour  before  breakfast 
extended  into  two  hours  after  breakfast  as  welL  Nor 
did  this  take  up  too  much  of  ray  time,  for  the  lad  waf 


MY    PUPIL.  299 

capable  of  doing  a  great  deal  for  himself  under  the  sense 
of  help  at  hand.  His  father,  so  far  from  making  any  ob- 
jection to  the  arrangement,  was  delighted  with  it.  Nor 
do  I  believe  that  the  lad  did  less  work  in  the  shop  for 
it :  I  learned  that  he  worked  regularly  till  eight  o'clock 
every  night. 

Now  the  good  of  the  arrangement  was  this  :  I  had  the 
lad  fresh  in  the  morning,  clear-headed,  with  no  mists 
from  the  valley  of  labour  to  cloud  the  heights  of  under- 
standing. From  the  exercise  of  the  mind  it  was  a  plea- 
sant and  relieving  change  to  turn  to  bodily  exertion.  1 
am  certain  that  he  both  thought  and  worked  better,  be- 
cause he  both  thought  and  worked.  Every  literary  man 
ought  to  be  mechanical  (to  use  a  Shakespearean  word)  as 
well.  But  it  would  have  been  quite  a  different  matter, 
if  he  had  come  to  me  after  the  labour  of  the  day.  He 
would  not  then  have  been  able  to  think  nearly  so  well. 
But  labour,  sleep,  thought,  labour  again,  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  right  order  with  those  who,  earning  their  bread 
by  the  sweat  of  the  brow,  would  yet  remember  that  man 
shall  not  live  by  bread  alone.  Were  it  possible  that  our 
mechanics  could  attend  the  institutions  called  by  their 
name  in  the  morning  instead  of  the  evening,  perhaps  we 
should  not  find  them  so  ready  to  degenerate  into  places 
of  mere  amusement.  I  am  not  objecting  to  the  amuse- 
ment ;  only  to  cease  to  educate  in  order  to  amuse  is  to 
degenerate.  Amusement  is  a  good  and  sacred  thing; 
but  it  is  not  on  a  par  with  education ;  and,  indeed,  if  it 
does  not  in  any  way  further  the  growth  of  the  highei 
nature,  it  cannot  be  called  good  at  all. 


300  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Having  exercised  him  in  the  analysis  of  some  of  the 
best  portions  of  our  home  literature, — I  mean  helped 
him  to  take  them  to  pieces,  that,  putting  them  togethei 
again,  he  might  see  uhat  kind  of  things  they  were — foi 
who  could  understand  a  new  machine,  or  find  out  what 
it  was  meant  for,  without  either  actually  or  in  his  mind 
taking  it  to  pieces  ?  (which  pieces,  however,  let  me  re- 
mind my  reader,  are  utterly  useless,  except  in  their  rela- 
tion to  the  whole) — I  resolved  to  try  something  fresh 
with  him. 

At  this  point  I  had  intended  to  give  my  readers  a 
theory  of  mine  about  the  teaching  and  learning  of  a 
language ;  and  tell  them  how  I  had  found  the  trial  of 
it  succeed  in  the  case  of  Tom  Weir.  But  I  think  this 
would  be  too  much  of  a  digression  from  the  course  ot 
my  narrative,  and  would,  besides,  be  interesting  to  those 
only  who  had  given  a  good  deal  of  thought  to  subjects 
belonging  to  education.  I  will  only  say,  therefore,  that, 
by  the  end  of  three  months,  my  pupil,  without  knowing 
any  other  Latin  author,  was  able  to  read  any  part  of  the 
first  book  of  the  ^neid — to  read  it  tolerably  in  measure, 
and  to  enjoy  the  poetry  of  it — and  this  not  without  a 
knowledge  of  the  declensions  and  conjugations.  As 
to  th«  syntax,  I  made  the  sentences  themselves  teach 
him  that.  Now  I  know  that,  as  an  end,  all  this  was 
of  no  great  value ;  but  as  a  beginning,  it  was  invaluable, 
for  it  made  and  kept  him  hungry  for  more ;  whereas,  in 
most  modes  of  teaching,  the  beginnings  are  such  that 
without  the  pressure  of  circumstances,  no  boy,  especially 
after  an  interval  of  cessation,  will  return  to  them.     Such 


MY    PUPIL.  30J 


is  not  Nature's  mode,  for  the  beginnings  with  her  are 
as  pleasant  as  the  fruition,  and  that  without  being  less 
thorough  than  they  can  be.  The  knowledge  a  child 
gains  of  the  external  world  is  the  foundation  upon  which 
all  his  future  philosophy  is  built.  Every  discovery  he 
makes  is  fraught  with  pleasure — that  is  the  secret  of  his 
progress,  and  the  essence  of  my  theory :  that  learning 
should,  in  each  individual  case,  as  in  the  first  case,  be 
discovery — bringing  its  own  pleasure  with  it.  Nor  is 
this  to  be  confounded  with  turning  study  into  play.  It 
is  upon  the  moon  itself  that  the  infant  speculates,  after 
the  moon  itself  that  he  stretches  out  his  eager  hands — 
to  find  in  after  years  that  he  still  wants  her,  but  that  in 
science  and  poetry  he  has  her  a  thousand-fold  more  than 
if  she  had  been  handed  him  down  to  suck. 

So,  after  all,  1  have  bored  my  reader  with  a  shadow 
of  my  theory,  instead  of  a  description.  After  all,  again, 
the  description  would  have  plagued  him  more,  and  that 
must  be  both  his  and  my  comfort. 

So  through  the  whole  of  that  summer  and  the  follow- 
ing winter,  I  went  on  teaching  Tom  Weir.  He  was  a 
lad  of  uncommon  ability,  else  he  could  not  have  effected 
what  I  say  he  had  within  his  first  three  months  of  Latin, 
let  my  theory  be  not  only  perfect  in  itself,  but  true  as 
well — true  to  human  nature,  I  mean.  And  his  father, 
though  his  own  book-learning  was  but  small,  had  enough 
of  insight  to  perceive  that  his  son  was  something  out  of 
the  common,  and  that  any  possible  advantage  he  might 
lose  by  remaining  in  Marshmallows  was  considerably 
more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  instruction  he  got 


302  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

from  the  vicar.  Hence,  I  believe,  it  was  that  not  a 
word  was  said  about  another  situation  for  Tom.  And 
I  was  glad  of  it ;  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  lad  liad 
abilities  equ^  to  any  profession  whatever. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DR  DUNCAN'S    STORY. 

N  the  next  Sunday  but  one — which  was  sur* 
prising  to  me  when  I  considered  the  manner 
of  our  last  parting — Catherine  Weir  was  in 
church,  for  the  second  time  since  I  had  come 
to  the  place.     As  it  happened,  only  as  Spenser  says — 

'•  It  chanced— eternal  God  that  chance  did  guide," 

— and  why  I  say  this,  will  appear  afterwards — I  had,  in 
preaching  upon,  that  is,  in  endeavouring  to  enforce  the 
I,ord's  Prayer  by  making  them  think  about  the  meaning 
of  the  words  they  were  so  familiar  with,  come  to  the  pe- 
tition, "  Forgive  us  our  debts,  as  we  forgive  our  debtors;" 
with  which  I  naturally  connected  the  words  of  our 
Lord  that  follow :  *'  For  if  ye  forgive  men  their  tres- 
passes, your  heavenly  Father-will  also  forgive  you ;  but 
if  ye  forgive  not  men  their  trespasses,  neither  will  your 
Father  forgive  your  trespasses."     I  need  not  tell  my 


304  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

reader  more  of  what  I  said  about  this,  than  that  I  tried 
to  show  that  even  were  it  possible  with  God  to  forgive 
an  unforgiving  man,  ihe  man  himself  would  not  be  able 
to  believe  for  a  moment  that  God  did  forgive  him,  and 
therefore  could  get  no  comfort  or  help  or  joy  of  any 
kind  from  the  forgiveness ;  so  essentially  does  hatred,  or 
revenge,  or  contempt,  or  anything  that  separates  us  from 
man,  separate  us  from  God  too.  To  the  loving  soul  alone 
does  the  Father  reveal  HimseK;  for  love  alone  can  under- 
stand Him.    It  is  the  peace-makers  who  are  His  children. 

This  I  said,  thinking  of  no  one  more  than  another  of 
my  audience.  But  as  I  closed  my  sermon,  I  could  not 
help  fancying  that  Mrs  Oldcastle  looked  at  me  with  more 
than  her  usual  fierceness.  I  forgot  all  about  it,  however, 
for  I  never  seemed  to  myself  to  have  any  hold  of,  or 
relation  to,  that  woman.  I  know  I  was  wrong  in  being 
unable  to  feel  my  relation  to  her  because  I  disliked  her. 
But  not  till  years  after  did  I  begin  to  understand  how  she 
felt,  or  recognize  in  myself  a  common  humanity  with  her. 
A  sin  of  my  own  made  me  understand  her  condition.  I 
can  hardly  explain  now;  I  will  tell  it  when  the  time 
comes.  When  I  called  upon  her  next,  after  the  inter- 
view last  related,  she  behaved  much  as  if  she  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it,  which  was  not  likely. 

In  the  end  of  the  week  after  the  sermon  to  which  I 
have  alluded,  I  was  passing  the  Hall-gate  on  my  usual 
Saturday's  walk,  when  Judy  saw  me  from  within,  as  she 
came  out  of  the  lodge.     She  was  with  me  in  a  moment. 

"  Mr  Walton,"  she  said,  "  how  could  you  preach  at 
Grannie  as  you  did  last  Sunday  1" 


DR   DUNCAN'S   STORY.  305 

"  I  did  not  preach  at  anybody,  Judy." 

"Oh,  Mr  Walton!" 

"  You  know  I  didn't,  Judy.  You  know  that  if  I  had, 
I  would  not  say  I  had  not." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know  that  perfectly,"  she  said,  seriously. 
"  But  Grannie  thinks  you  did.'* 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ]" 

«  By  her  face." 

«  That  is  all,  is  it  r 

"  You  don't  think  Grannie  would  say  so  ?** 

"  No.  Nor  yet  that  you  could  know  by  her  face  what 
she  was  thinking." 

*'  Oh  !  can't  I  just  ?  I  can  read  her  face — not  so  well 
as  plain  print ;  but,  let  me  see,  as  well  as  what  Uncle 
Stoddart  calls  black-letter,  at  least.  I  know  she  thought 
you  were  preaching  at  her ;  and  her  face  said,  *  I  shan't 
forgive  you,  anyhow.  I  never  forgive,  and  I  won't  for 
all  your  preaching.'     That's  what  her  face  said." 

"  I  am  sure  she  would  not  say  so,  Judy,"  I  said,  really 
not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"  Oh,  no ;  she  would  not  say  so.  She  would  say,  '  I 
always  forgive,  but  I  never  forget'  That 's  a  favourite 
saying  of  hers." 

"  But,  Judy,  don't  you  think  it  is  rather  hypocritical  of 
you  to  say  all  this  to  me  about  your  grandmother  when 
she  is  so  kind  to  you,  and  you  seem  such  good  friends 
with  her?" 

She  looked  up  in  my  face  with  an  expression  of  su^ 
prise. 

"  It  is  all  true^  Mr  Walton,"  she  said. 


306  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Perhaps.     But  you  are  saying  it  behind  her  bacL" 

"  I  will  go  home  and  say  it  to  her  face  directly." 

She  turned  to  go. 

"  No,  no,  Judy.  I  did  not  mean  that,"  I  said,  taking 
her  by  the  arm. 

"  I  won't  say  you  told  me  to  do  it  I  thought  there 
was  no  harm  in  telling  you.  Grannie  is  kind  to  me,  and 
I  am  kind  to  her.  But  Grannie  is  afraid  of  my  tongue, 
and  I  mean  her  to  be  afraid  of  it  It  s  the  only  way  to 
keep  her  in  order.  Darling  Aunt  Winnie  !  it 's  all  she 's 
got  to  defend  her.  If  you  knew  how  she  treats  her  some- 
times, you  would  be  cross  with  Grannie  yourself,  Mr 
Walton,  for  all  your  goodness  and  your  white  surplice." 

And  to  my  yet  greater  surprise,  the  wayward  girl  burst 
out  crying,  and,  breaking  away  from  me,  ran  through  the 
gate,  and  out  of  sight  amongst  the  trees,  without  once 
looking  back, 

I  pursued  my  walk,  my  meditations  somewhat  discom- 
posed by  the  recurring  question  : — Would  she  go  home 
and  tell  her  grandmother  what  she  had  said  to  mel 
And,  if  she  did,  would  it  not  widen  the  breach  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  which  I  seemed  to  see  Ethelvvyn  stand, 
out  of  the  reach  of  my  help  ? 

I  walked  quickly  on  to  reach  a  stile  by  means  of  which 
I  should  soon  leave  t!ie  little  world  of  Marshmallows 
quite  behind  me,  and  be  alone  with  nature  and  my 
Greek  Testament  Hearing  the  sound  of  horse-hoofs 
on  the  road  from  Addicehead,  I  glanced  up  from  my 
pocket-book,  in  which  I  had  been  looking  over  the 
thoughts  that  had  at  various  moments  passed  through 


DR  Duncan's  story.  307 

my  mind  that  week,  in  order  to  choose  one  (or  more,  if 
they  would  go  together)  to  be  brooded  over  to-day  for 
ray  people's  spiritual  diet  to-morrow — I  say  I  glanced 
up  from  my  pocket-book,  and  saw  a  young  man,  that  is, 
if  I  could  call  myself  young  still,  of  distinguished  ap- 
pearance, approaching  upon  a  good  serviceable  hack. 
He  turned  mto  my  road  and  passed  me.  He  was  pale, 
with  a  dark  moustache,  and  large  dark  eyes ;  sat  his  horse 
well  and  carelessly ;  had  fine  leatures  of  the  type  com- 
monly considered  Grecian,  but  thin,  and  expressive 
chiefly  of  conscious  weariness.  He  wore  a  white  hat 
with  crape  upon  it,  white  gloves,  and  long,  miUtary- 
looking  boots.  All  this  I  caught  as  he  passed  me ;  and 
I  remember  them,  because,  looking  after  him,  I  saw  him 
stop  at  the  lodge  of  the  Hall,  ring  the  bell,  and  then 
ride  through  the  gate.  I  confess  I  did  not  quite  hke 
this ;  but  I  got  over  the  feeling  so  far  as  to  be  able  to 
turn  to  my  Testament  when  I  had  reached  and  crossed 
the  stile. 

I  came  home  another  way,  after  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful days  I  had  ever  spent.  Having  reached  the 
river  in  the  course  of  my  wandering,  I  came  down  the 
side  of  it  towards  Old  Rogers's  cottage,  loitering  and 
looking,  quiet  in  heart  and  soul  and  mind,  because  I 
had  committed  my  cares  to  Him  who  careth  for  us. 
The  earth  was  round  me — I  was  rooted,  as  it  were,  in 
it,  but  the  air  of  a  higher  life  was  about  me.  I  was 
swayed  to  and  fro  by  the  motions  of  a  spiritual  power; 
feelings  and  desires  and  hopes  passed  through  me, 
passed  away,  and  returned ;  and  still  my  head  rose  into 


308  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

the  truth,  and  the  will  of  God  was  the  regnant  sunlight 
upon  it.  I  might  change  my  place  and  condition  ;  new 
feelings  might  come  forth,  and  old  feelings  retire  into 
the  lonely  corners  of  my  being;  but  still  my  heart 
should  be  glad  and  strong  in  the  one  changeless  thing, 
in  the  truth  that  maketh  free ;  still  my  head  should  rise 
into  the  sunlight  of  God,  and  I  should  know  that  be- 
cause He  lived  I  should  live  also,  and  because  He  was 
true  I  should  remain  true  also,  nor  should  any  change 
pass  upon  me  that  should  make  me  mourn  the  decad- 
ence of  humanity.  And  then  I  found  that  I  was  gazing 
over  the  stump  of  an  old  pollard,  on  which  I  was  lean- 
ing, down  on  a  great  bed  of  white  water-lilies,  that  lay 
in  the  broad  slow  river,  here  broader  and  slower  than 
in  most  places.  The  slanting  yellow  sunlight  shone 
through  the  water  down  to  the  very  roots  anchored  in 
the  soil,  and  the  water  swathed  their  stems  with  cool- 
ness and  freshness,  and  a  universal  sense,  I  doubt  not, 
of  watery  presence  and  nurture.  And  there  on  their 
lovely  heads,  as  they  lay  on  the  pillow  of  the  water, 
shone  the  life-giving  light  of  the  summer  sun,  filling  all 
the  spaces  between  their  outspread  petals  of  living  silver 
with  its  sea  of  radiance,  and  making  them  gleam  with 
the  whiteness  which  was  born  of  them  and  the  sun. 
And  then  came  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and,  turning,  1 
saw  the  gray  head  and  the  white  smock  of  my  old  friend 
Isogers,  and  1  was  glad  that  he  loved  me  enough  not  to 
be  afraid  of  the  parson  and  the  gentleman. 

"  I  've  found  it,  sir,  I  do  think,"  he  said,  his  brown 
furrowed  old  face  shining  with  a  yet  lovelier  light  than 


DR    DUNCAN'S    STORY.  309 

that  which  shone  from  the  blossoms  of  the  water-hHes. 
though,  after  what  1  had  been  thinking  about  them,  it 
was  no  wonder  that  they  seemed  both  to  mean  tlie  same 
thing, — both  to  shine  in  the  hght  of  His  countenance. 

"  Found  what,  Old  Rogers'?"  I  returned,  raising  my- 
self, and  laying  my  hand  in  return  on  his  shoulder. 

*'  Why  He  was  displeased  with  the  disciples  for  not 
knowing " 

"  What  He  meant  about  the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees," 
I  interrupted.     "  Yes,  yes,  of  course.     Tell  me  then." 

"  I  will  try,  sir.  It  was  all  dark  to  me  for  days.  For 
it  appeared  to  me  very  nat'ral  that,  seeing  they  had  no 
bread  in  the  locker,  and  hearing  tell  of  leaven  which 
they  weren't  to  eat,  they  should  think  it  had  summat  to 
do  with  their  having  none  of  any  sort.  But  He  didn't 
seem  to  think  it  was  right  of  them  to  fall  into  the  blun- 
der. For  why  then  ?  A  man  can't  be  always  right.  He 
may  be  like  myself,  a  foremast-man  with  no  schoolin' 
but  what  the  winds  and  the  waves  puts  into  him,  and 
I  'm  thinkin'  those  fishermen  the  I^ord  took  to  so 
much  were  something  o'  that  sort.  '  How  could  they 
help  it  ? '  I  said  to  myself,  sir.  And  from  that  I  came 
to  ask  myself,  'Could  they  have  helped  it?'  If  they 
couldn't,  He  wouldn't  have  been  vexed  with  them. 
Mayhap  they  ought  to  ha'  been  able  to  help  it.  And 
all  at  once,  sir,  this  mornin',  it  came  to  me.  I  don't 
know  how,  but  it  was  give  to  me,  anyhow.  And  I  flung 
down  my  rake,  and  I  ran  in  to  the  old  woman,  but  she 
wasn't  in  the  way,  and  so  I  went  back  to  my  work  again. 
But  when  I  saw  you,  sir,  a  readin'  upon  the  lilies  o'  the 


3IO  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

field,  leastways,  the  lilies  o'  the  water,  I  couKlnt  help 
rannin'  out  to  tell  you.  Isn't  it  a  satisfaction,  sir,  when 
yer  dead  reckonin'  runs  ye  right  in  betwixt  the  cheeks 
of  the  harbour  ?     I  see  it  all  now." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know,  old  Rogers.  I  'm  not  so  old 
as  you,  and  so  I  may  live  longer ;  and  every  time  I  read 
that  passage,  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  say  to  myself, 
*  Old  Rogers  gave  me  this.' " 

"  I  only  hope  I  'm  right,  sir.  It  was  just  this  :  their 
heads  was  full  of  their  dinner  because  they  didn't  know 
where  it  was  to  come  from.  But  they  ought  to  ha'  known 
where  it  always  come  from.  If  their  hearts  had  been 
full  of  the  dinner  He  gave  the  five  thousand  hungry  men 
and  women  and  children,  they  wouldn't  have  been  un- 
comfortable about  not  having  a  loaf.  And  so  they 
wouldn't  have  been  set  upon  the  wrong  tack  when  He 
spoke  about  the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees  and  Sadducees ; 
and  they  would  have  known  in  a  moment  what  He 
meant.  And  if  I  hadn't  been  too  much  of  the  same  sort, 
I  wouldn't  have  started  saying  it  was  but  reasonable  to 
be  in  the  doldrums  because  they  were  at  sea  with  no 
biscuit  in  the  locker." 

"  You  're  right ;  you  must  be  right,  old  Rogers.  It 's 
as  plain  as  possible,"  I  cried,  rejoiced  at  the  old  man's 
insight.  "  Thank  you.  I  '11  preach  about  it  to-morrow. 
I  thought  I  had  got  my  sermon  in  Foxborough  Wood, 
but  I  was  mistaken  :  you  had  got  it." 

But  I  was  mistaken  again.  I  had  not  got  my  sermon 
yet 

I  walked  with  him  to  his  cottage  and  left  him,  after  a 


DR    DUNCAN  S    STORY.  3J1 

greeting  with  the  "  old  woman."  Passing  then  through 
the  village,  and  seeing  by  the  light  of  her  candle  the 
forn^.  of  Catherine  Weir  behind  her  counter,  I  went  in. 
I  thought  old  Rogers's  tobacco  must  be  nearly  gone, 
and  I  might  safely  buy  some  more.  Catherine's  manner 
was  much  the  same  as  usual.  But  as  she  was  weighing 
my  purchase,  she  broke  out  all  at  once  : 

"  It 's  no  use  your  preaching  at  me,  Mr  Walton.  I 
cannot,  I  will  not  forgive.  I  will  do  anything  but  for- 
give.    And  it 's  no  use." 

"  It  is  not  I  that  say  it,  Catherine.  It  is  the  Lord 
himself." 

I  saw  no  great  use  in  protesting  my  innocence,  yet  I 
thought  it  better  to  add — 

"And  I  was  not  preaching  at  you.  I  was  preaching 
to  you,  as  much  as  to  any  one  there,  and  no  more." 

Of  this  she  took  no  notice,  and  I  resumed : 

"  Just  think  of  what  He  says,  not  what  I  say." 

"  I  can't  help  it.  If  He  won't  forgive  me,  I  must  go 
without  it     I  can't  forgive." 

I  saw  that  good  and  evil  were  fighting  in  her,  and  felt 
that  no  words  of  mine  could  be  of  further  avail  at  the 
moment.  The  words  of  our  Lord  had  laid  hold  of  her; 
that  was  enough  for  this  time.  Nor  dared  I  ask  her  any 
questions.  I  had  the  feeling  that  it  would  hurt,  not 
help.     All  I  could  venture  to  say,  was  : 

"  I  won't  trouble  you  with  talk,  Catherine.  Our  Lord 
wants  to  talk  to  you.  It  is  not  for  me  to  interfere.  But 
please  to  remember,  if  ever  you  think  I  can  serve  you 
in  any  way,  you  have  only  to  send  for  me." 


^12  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

She  murmured  a  mechanical  thanks,  and  handed  me 
my  parcel.  I  paid  for  it,  bade  her  good  night,  and  left 
the  shop. 

"  O  Lord,"  I  said  in  my  heart,  as  I  walked  a-w  ay, 
"  what  a  labour  Thou  hast  with  us  all !  Shall  we  ever, 
some  day,  be  all,  and  quite,  good  like  Thee  1  Help  me. 
Fill  me  with  Thy  light,  that  my  work  may  all  go  to  bring 
about  the  gladness  of  Thy  kingdom — the  holy  house- 
hold of  us  brothers  and  sisters — all  Thy  children." 

And  now  I  found  that  I  wanted  very  much  to  see  my 
friend  Dr  Duncan.  He  received  me  with  his  stately 
cordiality,  and  a  smile  that  went  farther  than  all  his 
words  of  greeting. 

"  Come  now,  Mr  Walton,  I  am  just  going  to  sit  down 
to  my  dinner,  and  you  must  join  me.  I  think  there  will 
be  enough  for  us  both.  There  is,  I  believe,  a  chicken 
a-piece  for  us,  and  we  can  make  up  with  cheese  and  a 
glass  of — would  you  believe  it  1 — my  own  father's  port. 
He  was  fond  of  port — the  old  man — though  I  never  saw 
him  with  one  glass  more  aboard  than  the  registered 
tonnage.  He  always  sat  light  on  the  water.  Ah,  dear 
me  !  I  'm  old  myself  now." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  Mrs  Pearson?"  I  said. 
"  There 's  some  chef-d^ceuvre  of  hers  waiting  for  me  by 
this  time.  She  always  treats  me  particularly  well  on 
Saturdays  and  Sundays." 

"  Ah !  then,  you  must  not  stop  with  me.  You  will 
fare  better  at  home." 

"  But  I  should  much  prefer  stopping  with  you.  Couldn't 
you  send  a  message  for  mel* 


DR    DUNCAN'S    STORY.  313 

"  To  be  sure.     My  boy  will  run  with  it  at  once." 

Now,  what  is  the  use  of  writing  all  this  1  I  do  not 
know.  Only  that  even  a  tete-cL-tete  dinner  with  an  old 
friend,  now  that  I  am  an  old  man  myself,  has  such  a 
pearly  halo  about  it  in  the  mists  of  the  past,  that  every 
little  circumstance  connected  with  it  becomes  interest- 
ing, though  it  may  be  quite  unworthy  of  record.  So, 
kind  reader,  let  it  stand. 

We  sat  down  to  our  dinner,  so  simple  and  so  well- 
cooked  that  it  was  just  what  I  liked.  I  wanted  very 
much  to  tell  my  friend  what  had  occurred  in  Catherine's 
shop,  but  I  would  not  begin  till  we  were  safe  from  in- 
terruption; and  so  we  chatted  away  concerning  many 
things,  he  telhng  me  about  his  seafaring  life,  and  I  tell- 
ing him  some  of  the  few  remarkable  things  that  had 
happened  to  me  in  the  course  of  my  life-voyage.  There 
is  no  man  but  has  met  with  some  remarkable  things 
that  other  people  would  like  to  know,  and  which  would 
seem  stranger  to  them  than  they  did  at  the  time  to  the 
person  to  whom  they  happened. 

At  length  I  brought  our  conversation  round  to  my 
interview  with  Catherine  Weir. 

"  Can  you  understand,"  I  said,  "  a  woman  finding  it 
so  hard  to  forgive  her  own  father?" 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  her  father  ]"  he  returned. 

"  Surely  she  has  not  this  feeling  towards  more  than 
one.     That  she  has  it  towards  her  father,  I  know." 

"  X  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  known  re- 
sentment preponderate  over  every  other  feeling  and 
passion — in  the  mind  of  a  woman  too.     I  once  hean' 


314  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

of  a  good  woman  who  cherished  this  feeUng  against  a 
good  man  because  of  some  distrustful  words  he  had 
once  addressed  to  herself.  She  had  lived  to  a  great 
age,  and  was  expressing  to  her  clergyman  her  desire 
that  God  would  take  her  away  :  she  had  been  waiting  a 
long  time.  The  clergyman — a  very  shrewd  as  well  as 
devout  man,  and  not  without  a  touch  of  humour,  said  : 
*  Perhaps  God  doesn't  mean  to  let  you  die  till  you  've 

forgiven  Mr .'     She  was  as  if  struck  with  a  flash  ot 

thought,  sat  silent  during  the  rest  of  his  visit,  and  when 

the  clergyman  called  the  next  day,  he  found*  Mr « 

and  her  talking  together  very  quietly  over  a  cup  of  tea. 
And  she  hadn't  long  to  wait  after  that,  I  was  told,  but 
was  gathered  to  her  fathers — or  went  home  to  her  chil- 
dren, whichever  is  the  better  phrase." 

"  I  wish  I  had  had  your  experience,  Dr  Duncan,"  I 
said. 

"I  have  not  had  so  much  experience  as  a  general 
practitioner,  because  I  have  been  so  long  at  sea.  But 
T  am  satisfied  that  until  a  medical  man  knows  a  good 
deal  more  about  his  patient  than  most  medical  men 
give  themselves  the  trouble  to  find  out,  his  prescriptions 
will  partake  a  good  deal  more  than  is  necessary  of  hap- 
hazard.— As  to  this  question  of  obstinate  resentment,  I 
know  one  case  in  which  it  is  the  ruling  presence  of  a 
woman's  life — the  very  light  that  is  in  her  is  resentment; 
I  think  her  possessed  myself." 

"  Tell  me  something  about  her." 

"  I  wilL  But  even  to  you  I  will  mention  no  names. 
Not  that  I  have  her  confidence  in  the  least     But  I  thinV 


DR    DUNCAN  S    STORY.  315 

it  is  better  not.  I  was  called  to  attend  a  lady  at  a  house 
where  I  had  never  yet  been." 

"  Was  it  in V  I  began,  but  checked  myself.     Dt 

Duncan  smiled  and  went  on  without  remark.  I  could 
see  that  he  told  his  story  with  great  care,  lest,  I  thought, 
he  should  let  anything  slip  that  might  give  a  clue  to  the 
place  or  people. 

"  I  was  led  up  into  an  old-fashioned,  richly-furnished 
room.  A  great  wood-fire  burned  on  the  hearth.  The 
bed  was  surrounded  with  heavy  dark  curtains,  in  which 
the  shadowy  remains  of  bright  colours  were  just  visible. 
In  the  bed  lay  one  of  the  loveliest  young  creatures  I  had 
ever  seen.  And,  one  on  each  side,  stood  two  of  the  most 
dreadful-looking  women  I  had  ever  beheld.  Still  as 
death,  while  I  examined  my  patient,  they  stood,  with 
moveless  faces,  one  as  white  as  the  other.  Only  the  eyes 
of  both  of  them  were  alive.  One  was  evidently  mistress, 
and  the  other  servant.  The  latter  looked  more  self-con- 
tained than  the  former,  but  less  determined  and  possibly 
more  cruel.  That  both  could  be  unkind  at  least,  was 
plain  enough.  There  was  trouble  and  signs  of  inward 
conflict  in  the  eyes  of  the  mistress.  The  maid  gave  no 
sign  of  any  inside  to  her  at  all,  but  stood  watching  her 
mistress.  A  child's  toy  was  lying  in  a  corner  of  the 
room." 

I  may  here  interrupt  my  friend's  story  to  tell  my 
reader  that  I  may  be  mingling  some  of  my  own  conclu- 
sions wiih  what  the  good  man  told  me  of  his.  For  he 
will  sec  well  enough  already  that  I  had  m  a  moment 
atiacbed  his  description  to  persons  I  knew,  and,  as  it 


3X6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

turned  out,  correctly,  though  I  could  not  be  certain  about 
it  till  the  story  had  advanced  a  little  beyond  this  early 
stage  of  its  progress. 

"  1  found  the  lady  very  weak  and  very  feverish — a 
quick  feeble  pulse,  now  bounding,  and  now  intermitting 
— and  a  restlessness  in  her  eye  which  I  felt  contained 
the  secret  of  her  disorder.  She  kept  glancing,  as  if  in 
voluntarily,  towards  the  door,  which  would  not  open  for 
all  her  looking,  and  I  heard  her  once  murmur  to  herself 
— for  I  was  still  quick  of  hearing  then — *  He  won't 
come  ! '  Perhaps  I  only  saw  her  lips  move  to  those  words 
— I  cannot  be  sure,  but  I  am  certain  she  said  them  in 
her  heart  I  prescribed  for  her  as  far  as  I  could  venture, 
but  begged  a  word  with  her  mother.  She  went  with  me 
into  an  adjoining  room. 

"  *  The  lady  is  longing  for  something,'  I  said,  not 
wishing  to  be  so  definite  as  I  could  have  been 

"  The  mother  made  no  reply.     I  saw  her  lips  shut 
yet  closer  than  before. 

"  'She  is  your  daughter,  is  she  noti* 

"  *  Yes/ — ^very  decidedly. 

"  *  Could  you  not  find  out  what  she  wishes  ?' 

"  *  Perhaps  I  could  guess.' 

"  *  I  do  not  think  I  can  do  her  any  good  till  she  has 
what  she  wants.' 

"  *  Is  that  your  mode  of  prescribing,  doctor  V  she  said, 
tartly. 

"  *  Yes,  certainly,'  I  answered — '  in  the  present  casa 
Is  she  married  ]* 

« '  Yes.' 


DR    DUNCAN   S    STORY.  SIf 

"  '  Has  she  any  children  J ' 

" '  One  daughter/ 

"  *  Let  her  see  her,  then.' 

"  *  She  does  not  care  to  see  her.* 

"  *  Where  is  her  husband  V 

"  '  Excuse  me,  doctor ;  I  did  not  send  for  you  to  ask 
questions,  but  to  give  advice.' 

"  *  And  I  came  to  ask  questions,  in  order  that  I  might 
give  advice.  Do  you  think  a  human  being  is  hke  a 
clock,  that  can  be  taken  to  pieces,  cleaned,  and  put  to- 
gether again  V 

"  *  My  daughter's  condition  is  not  a  fit  subject  for 
jesting.' 

"  '  Certainly  not.  Send  for  her  husband,  or  the  un- 
dertaker, whichever  you  please,'  I  said,  forgetting  my 
manners  and  my  temper  together,  for  I  was  more  irri- 
table then  than  I  am  now,  and  there  was  something  so 
repulsive  about  the  woman,  that  I  felt  as  if  I  was  talking 
to  an  evil  creature  that  for  her  own  ends,  though  what  I 
could  not  tell,  was  tormenting  the  dying  lady. 

"  '  I  understood  you  were  a  gentlemati — of  experience 
and  breeding.' 

"  *  I  am  not  in  the  question,  madam.  It  is  your 
daughter.' 

"  '  She  shall  take  your  prescription.' 

"  '  She  must  see  her  husband  if  it  be  possible.* 

"  '  It  is  not  possible.' 

«'Whyr 

"  '  I  say  it  is  not  possible,  and  that  is  enough.  Good 
morning.' 


3l8  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  I  could  say  no  more  at  that  time  I  called  the  next 
day.  She  was  just  the  same,  only  that  I  knew  she 
wanted  to  speak  to  me,  and  dared  not,  because  of  the 
presence  of  the  two  women.  Her  troubled  eyes  seemed 
searching  mine  for  pity  and  help,  and  I  could  not  tell 
what  to  do  for  her.  There  are,  indeed,  as  some  one 
says,  strongholds  of  injustice  and  wrong  into  which  no 
law  can  enter  to  help. 

"  One  afternoon,  about  a  week  after  my  first  visit,  I 
was  sitting  by  her  bedside,  wondering  what  could  be 
done  to  get  her  out  of  the  clutches  of  these  tormentors, 
who  were,  evidently  to  me,  consuming  her  in  the  slow  fire 
of  her  own  affections,  when  I  heard  a  faint  noise,  a  rapid 
foot  in  the  house  so  quiet  before ;  heard  doors  open  and 
shut,  then  a  dull  sound  of  conflict  of  some  sort.  Pre- 
sently a  quick  step  came  up  the  oak-stair.  The  face  of 
my  patient  flushed,  and  her  eyes  gleamed  as  if  her  soul 
would  come  out  of  them.  Weak  as  she  was  she  sat  up 
in  bed,  almost  without  an  effort,  and  the  two  women 
darted  from  the  room,  one  after  the  other. 

"'My  husband!'  said  the  girl — for  indeed  she  was 
little  more  in  age,  turning  hei  face,  almost  distorted  with 
eagerness,  towards  me. 

" '  Yes,  my  dear,'  I  said,  *  I  know.  But  you  must  be 
as  still  as  you  can,  else  you  will  be  very  ill.  Do  keep 
quiet' 

"  *  I  will,  I  will,*  she  gasped,  stuffing  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief actually  into  her  mouth  to  prevent  herself  from 
screaming,  as  if  that  was  what  would  hurt  her.  *  But  go 
to  him.     They  will  murder  him.* 


DR  Duncan's  story.  y.q 

"  That  moment  I  heard  a  cry,  and  what  sounded  like 
an  articulate  imprecation,  but  both  from  a  woman's  voice ; 
and  the  next,  a  young  man — as  fine  a  fellow  as  I  ever 
saw — dressed  like  a  game-keeper,  but  evidently  a  gentle- 
man, walked  into  the  room  with  a  quietness  that  strangely 
contrasted  with  the  dreadful  paleness  of  his  face  and  with 
his  disordered  hair;  while  the  two  women  followed,  as 
red  as  he  was  white,  and  evidently  in  fierce  wrath  from  a 
fruitless  struggle  with  the  powerful  youth.  He  walked 
gently  up  to  his  wife,  whose  outstretched  arms  and  face 
followed  his  face  as  he  came  round  the  bed  to  where  she 
was  at  the  other  side,  till  arms,  and  face,  and  head,  fell 
into  his  embrace. 

"  I  had  gone  to  the  mother. 

"  *  Let  us  have  no  scene  now,'  I  said,  *  or  her  blood 
will  be  on  your  head.' 

"  She  took  no  notice  of  what  I  said,  but  stood  silently 
glaring,  not  gazing,  at  the  pair.  I  feared  an  outburst, 
and  had  resolved,  if  it  came,  to  carry  her  at  once  from 
the  room,  which  I  was  quite  able  to  do  then,  Mr  Wal- 
ton, though  I  don't  look  like  it  now.  But  in  a  moment 
more  the  young  man,  becoming  uneasy  at  the  motion- 
lessness  of  his  wife,  lifted  up  her  head,  and  glanced  in 
her  face.  Seeing  the  look  of  terror  in  his,  I  hastened 
to  him,  and  lifting  her  from  him,  laid  her  down — dead. 
Disease  of  the  heart,  I  believe.  The  mother  burst  into 
a  shriek — not  of  horror,  or  grief,  or  remorse,  but  ot 
deadly  hatred. 

"  *  Look  at  your  work  ! '  she  cried  to  him,  as  he  stood 
gazing  in  stupor  on  the  face  of  the  girl.     *  You  said  she 


320  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


was  yours,  not  mine ;  take  her.  You  may  have  her  nov 
you  have  killed  hen' 

"  '  He  may  have  killed  her ;  but  you  have  murdered 
her,  madam,'  I  said,  as  I  took  the  man  by  the  arm,  and 
led  him  away,  yielding  like  a  child.  But  the  moment  I 
got  him  out  of  the  house,  he  gave  a  groan,  and,  break- 
ing away  from  me,  rushed  down  a  road  leading  from  the 
back  of  the  house  towards  the  home-farm.  I  followed, 
but  he  had  disappeared.  I  went  on ;  but  before  I  could 
reach  the  farm,  I  heard  the  gallop  of  a  horse,  and  saw 
him  tearing  away  at  full  speed  along  the  London  road. 
I  never  heard  more  of  him,  or  of  the  story.  Some 
women  can  be  secret  enough,  I  assure  you." 

I  need  not  follow  the  rest  of  our  conversation.  I 
could  hardly  doubt  whose  was  the  story  I  had  heard. 
It  threw  a  light  upon  several  things  about  which  I  had 
been  perplexed.  What  a  horror  of  darkness  seemed  to 
hang  over  that  family !  What  deeds  of  wickedness ! 
But  the  reason  was  clear :  the  horror  came  from  within ; 
selfishness,  and  fierceness  of  temper  were  its  source — no 
unhappy  doom.  The  worship  of  one's  own  will  fumes  out 
around  the  being  an  atmosphere  of  evil,  an  altogether 
abnormal  condition  of  the  moral  firmament,  out  of  which 
will  break  the  very  flames  of  hell.  The  consciousness 
of  birth  and  of  breeding,  instead  of  stirring  up  to  deeds 
of  gentleness  and  "  high  emprise,"  becomes  then  but 
an  incentive  to  violence  and  cruelty ;  and  things  which 
seem  as  if  they  could  not  happen  in  a  civilized  country 
and  a  polished  age,  are  proved  as  possible  as  ever  where 
the  heart  is  unloving,  the  feelings  unrefined,  self  the 


DR    DUNCAN'S    STORY.  32I 

centre,  and  God  nowhere  in  the  man  or  woman's  vision. 
The  terrible  things  that  one  reads  in  old  histories,  or  in 
modem  newspapers,  were  done  by  human  beings,  not 
by  demons. 

I  did  not  let  my  friend  know  that  I  knew  all  that  he 
concealed ;  but  I  may  as  well  tell  my  reader  now,  what 
I  could  not  have  told  him  then.  I  know  all  the  story 
now,  and,  as  no  better  place  will  come,  as  far  as  I  can 
see,  I  will  tell  it  at  once,  and  briefly. 

Dorothy — a  wonderful  name,  the  gift  of  God,  to  be  so 
treated,  faring  in  this,  however,  like  many  other  of  God's 
gitts — Dorothy  Oldcastle  was  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Jeremy  and  Sibyl  Oldcastle,  and  the  sister  therefore  of 
Ethelwyn.  Her  father,  who  was  an  easy-going  man, 
entirely  under  the  dominion  of  his  wife,  died  when  she 
was  about  fifteen,  and  her  mother  sent  her  to  school, 
with  especial  recommendation  to  the  care  of  a  clergyman 
in  the  neighbourhood,  whom  Mrs  Oldcastle  knew ;  for, 
somehow — and  the  fact  is  not  so  unusual  as  to  justify 
especial  inquiry  here — though  she  paid  no  attention  to 
what  our  Lord  or  His  apostles  said,  nor  indeed  seemed 
to  care  to  ask  herself  if  what  she  did  was  right,  or  what 
she  accepted  (I  cannot  say  believed)  was  true,  she  had 
yet  a  certain  (to  me  all  but  incomprehensible)  leaning 
to  the  clergy.  I  think  it  belongs  to  the  same  kind  of 
superstition  which  many  of  our  own  day  are  turning  to. 
Offered  the  Spirit  of  God  for  the  asking,  offered  it  by 
the  Lord  himself,  in  the  misery  of  their  unbelief  they 
betake  themselves  to  necromancy  instead,  and  raise 
llie  dead  to  ask  their  advice,  and  follo7v  it,  and  will  find 

X 


32a  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

some  day  that  Satan  had  not  forgotten  how  to  dress  like 
an  angel  of  light.  Nay,  he  can  be  more  cunning  with 
the  demands  of  the  time.  We  are  clever :  he  will  be 
cleverer.  Why  should  he  dress  and  not  speak  like  an 
angel  of  light  1  Why  should  he  not  give  good  advice  if 
that  will  help  to  withdraw  people  by  degrees  from  re- 
garding the  source  of  all  good  1  He  knows  well  enough 
that  good  advice  goes  for  little,  but  that  what  fills  the 
heart  and  mind  goes  for  much.  What  religion  is  there 
in  being  convinced  of  a  future  state  ]  Is  that  to  worship 
God?  It  is  no  more  religion  than  the  belief  that  the 
sun  will  rise  to-morrow  is  religion.  It  may  be  a  source 
of  happiness  to  those  who  could  not  believe  it  before, 
but  it  is  not  religion.  AVhere  religion  comes  that  will 
certainly  be  likewise,  but  the  one  is  not  the  other.  The 
devil  can  afford  a  kind  of  conviction  of  that.  It  costs 
him  little.  But  to  believe  that  the  spirits  of  the  departed 
are  the  mediators  between  God  and  us  is  essential  pagan- 
ism— to  call  it  nothing  worse ;  and  a  bad  enough  name 
too  since  Christ  has  come  and  we  have  heard  and  seen 
the  only-begotten  of  the  Father.  Thus  the  instinctive 
desire  for  the  wonderful,  the  need  we  have  of  a  revela- 
tion from  above  us,  denied  its  proper  food  and  nourish- 
ment, turns  in  its  hunger  to  feed  upon  garbage.  As  a 
devout  German  says — I  do  not  quote  him  quite  correctly 
— "  Where  God  rules  not,  demonr  will."  Let  us  once 
see  with  our  spiritual  eyes  the  Wonderful,  the  Coun- 
sellor, and  surely  we  shall  not  turn  from  Him  to  seek 
elsewhere  the  treasures  of  wisdom  and  knowledge. 
Those  who  sympathize  with  my  feeling  in  regard  to 


DR    DUNCAN  S    STORY,  32^ 

this  form  of  the  materiaUsm  of  our  day,  will  forgive  this 
divergence,  I  submit  to  the  artistic  blame  of  such  as 
do  not,  and  return  to  my  story. 

Dorothy  was  there  three  or  four  years.  I  said  I  would 
be  brief  She  and  the  clergyman's  son  fell  in  love  with 
each  other.  The  mother  heard  of  it,  and  sent  for  her 
home.  She  had  other  views  for  her.  Of  course,  in 
such  eyes,  a  daughter's  fancy  was,  irrespective  of  its  ob- 
ject altogether,  a  thing  to  be  sneered  at.  But  she  found, 
to  her  fierce  disdain,  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  keep 
all  her  beloved  obstinacy  to  herself :  she  had  transmitted 
a  portion  of  it  to  her  daughter.  But  in  her  it  was  com- 
bined with  noble  qualities,  and,  ceasing  to  be  the  evil 
thing  it  was  in  her  mother,  became  an  honourable  firm- 
ness, rendering  her  able  to  withstand  her  mother's  stormy 
importunities.  Thus  Nature  had  begun  to  right  herself 
• — the  right  in  the  daughter  turning  to  meet  and  defy  the 
wrong  in  the  mother,  and  that  in  the  same  strength  of 
character  which  the  mother  had  misused  for  eidl  and 
selfish  ends.  And  thus  the  bad  breed  was  broken.  She 
was  and  would  be  true  to  her  lover.  The  consequent 
scenes  were  dreadful.  The  spirit  but  not  the  will  of  the 
girl  was  all  but  broken.  She  felt  that  she  could  not 
sustain  the  strife  long.  By  some  means,  unknown  to 
my  informant,  her  lover  contrived  to  communicate  with 
her.  He  had,  through  means  of  relations  who  had  gren  t 
influence  with  Government,  procured  a  good  appoint- 
ment in  India,  whither  he  must  sail  within  a  month. 
The  end  was  that  she  left  her  mother's  house.  Mr 
Gladvvyn  was  waiting  for  her  near,  and  conducted  her 


324  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

to  his  father's,  who  had  constantly  refused  to  aid  Mrs 
Oldcastle  by  interfering  in  the  matter.  They  were  mar- 
ried next  day  by  the  clergyman  of  a  neighbouring  parish. 
But  almost  immediately  she  was  taken  so  ill,  that  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  accompany  her  husband,  and  she 
was  compelled  to  remain  behind  at  the  rectory,  hoping 
to  join  him  the  following  year. 

Before  the  time  arrived,  she  gave  birth  to  my  little 
friend  Judy;  and  her  departure  was  again  delayed  by  a 
return  of  her  old  complaint,  probably  the  early  stages  of 
the  disease  of  which  she  died.  Then,  just  as  she  was 
about  to  set  sail  for  India,  news  arrived  that  Mr  Gladwyn 
had  had  a  sunstroke,  and  would  have  leave  of  absence 
and  come  home  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  be  moved ; 
so  that  instead  of  going  out  to  join  him,  she  must  wait 
for  him  where  she  was.  His  mother  had  been  dead  for 
some  time.  His  father,  an  elderly  man  of  indolent  habits, 
was  found  dead  in  his  chair  one  Sunday  morning  soon 
after  the  news  had  arrived  of  the  illness  of  his  son,  to 
whom  he  was  deeply  attached.  And  so  the  poor  young 
creature  was  left  alone  with  her  child,  without  money, 
and  in  weak  health.  The  old  man  left  nothing  behind 
him  but  his  furniture  and  books.  And  nothing  could  be 
done  in  arranging  his  affairs  till  the  arrival  of  his  son,  of 
whom  the  last  accounts  had  been  that  he  was  slowly 
recovering.  In  the  meantime  his  wife  was  in  want  of 
money,  without  a  friend  to  whom  she  could  apply.  1 
presume  that  one  of  the  few  parishioners  who  visited 
at  the  rectory  had  written  to  acquaint  Mrs  Oldcastle 
with  the  condition  in  which  her  daughter  was  lei'c,  for. 


iJK.  Duncan's  story. 


influenced  by  motives  of  which  I  dare  not  take  upon  mz 
'o  conjecture  an  analysis,  she  wrote,  offering  her  daughter 
uU  that  she  required  in  her  old  home.  Whether  she 
fore-intended  her  following  conduct,  or  old  habit  re- 
turned with  the  return  of  her  daughter,  I  cannot  tell ; 
but  she  had  not  been  more  than  a  few  days  in  the  house 
before  she  began  to  tyrannise  over  her,  as  in  old  times, 
and  although  Mrs  Gladwyn's  health,  now  always  weak, 
was  evidently  failing  in  consequence,  she  either  did  not 
see  the  cause,  or  could  not  restrain  her  evil  impulses. 
At  length  the  news  arrived  of  Mr  Gladwyn's  departure 
for  home.  Perhaps  then  for  the  first  time  the  tempta- 
tion entered  her  mind  to  take  her  revenge  upon  him,  by 
making  her  daughter's  illness  a  pretext  for  refusing  him 
admission  to  her  presence.  She  told  her  she  should 
not  see  him  till  she  was  better,  for  that  it  would  make 
her  worse  ;  persisted  in  her  resolution  after  his  arrival ; 
and  effected,  by  the  help  of  Sarah,  that  he  should  not 
gain  admittance  to  the  house,  keeping  all  the  doors 
locked  except  one.  It  was  only  by  the  connivance  of 
Ethelwyn,  then  a  girl  about  fifteen,  that  he  was  ad- 
mitted by  the  underground  way,  of  which  she  unlocked 
the  upper  door  for  his  entrance.  She  had  then  guided 
him  as  far  as  she  dared,  and  directed  him  the  rest  of  the 
way  to  his  wife's  room. 

My  reader  will  now  understand  how  it  came  about  in 
the  process  of  writing  these  my  recollections,  that  I  have 
given  such  a  long  chapter  chiefly  to  that  one  evening  spent 
with  my  good  friend,  Dr  Duncan  ;  for  he  will  see,  as  I  have 
said,  that  what  he  told  me  opened  up  a  good  deal  to  me, 


326  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  had  very  little  time  for  the  privacy  of  the  churcli 
that  night.  Dark  as  it  was,  however,  I  went  in  before  I 
went  home  :  I  had  the  key  of  the  vestry-door  always  in 
my  pocket.  I  groped  my  way  into  the  pulpit,  and  sat 
down  in  the  darkness,  and  thought.  Nor  did  my  per- 
sonal interest  in  Dr  Duncan's  story  make  me  forget  poor 
Catherine  Weir  and  the  terrible  sore  in  her  heart,  the 
sore  of  unforgivingness.  And  I  saw  that  of  herself  she 
would  not,  could  not,  forgive  to  all  eternity ;  that  all  the 
pains  of  hell  could  not  make  her  forgive,  for  that  it  was 
a  divine  glory  to  forgive,  and  must  come  from  God. 
And  thinking  of  Mrs  Oldcastle,  I  saw  that  in  ourselves 
we  could  be  sure  of  no  safety,  not  from  the  worst  and 
vilest  sins ;  for  who  could  tell  how  he  might  not  stupify 
himself  by  degrees,  and  by  one  action  after  another, 
each  a  little  worse  than  the  former,  till  the  very  fires  of 
Sinai  would  not  flash  into  eyes  blinded  with  the  incense 
arising  to  the  golden  calf  of  his  worship  1  A  man  may 
come  to  worship  a  devil  without  knowing  it.  Only  by 
being  filled  with  a  higher  spirit  than  our  own,  which, 
having  caused  our  spirits,  is  one  with  our  spirits,  and  is 
in  them  the  present  life  principle,  are  we  or  can  we  be 
safe  from  this  eternal  death  of  our  being.  This  spirit 
was  fighting  the  evil  spirit  in  Catherine  Weir :  how  was 
I  to"  urge  her  to  give  ear  to  the  good?  If  will  would 
but  side  with  God,  the  forces  of  self,  deserted  by  their 
leader,  must  soon  quit  the  field;  and  the  woman — the 
kingdom  within  her  no  longer  torn  by  conflicting  forces 
— would  sit  quiet  at  the  feet  of  the  Master,  reposing  in 
that  rest  which  He  offered  to  those  who  could  come  to 


DR  Duncan's  story.  327 


Him.  Might  she  not  be  roused  to  utter  one  feeble  cry 
10  God  for  help  ?  That  would  be  one  step  towards  the 
forgiveness  of  others.  To  ask  something  for  herself 
would  be  a  great  advance  in  such  a  proud  nature  as 
hers.  And  to  ask  good  heartily  is  the  very  next  step  to 
giving  good  heartily. 

Many  thoughts  such  as  these  passed  through  my  mind, 
chiefly  associated  with  her.  For  I  could  not  think  how 
to  think  about  Mrs  Oldcastle  yet.  And  the  old  chur;;h 
gloomed  about  me  all  the  time.  And  I  kept  lifting  up 
my  heart  to  the  God  who  had  cared  to  make  me,  and 
then  drew  me  to  be  a  preacher  to  my  fellows,  and  had 
surely  something  to  give  me  to  say  to  them;  for  did 
He  not  choose  so  to  work  by  the  foolishness  of  preach- 
ing?— Might  not  my  humble  ignorance  work  His  will, 
though  my  wrath  could  not  work  His  righteousness? 
And  I  descended  from  the  pulpit  thinking  with  myself, 
"  Let  Him  do  as  He  will.  Here  I  am.  I  will  say  what 
I  see  :  let  Him  make  it  good." 

And  the  next  morning,  I  spoke  about  the  words  of  out 
Lord : 

"  If  ye  then,  being  evil,  know  how  to  give  good  gifts 
to  your  children,  how  much  more  shall  your  heavenly 
Father  give  the  Holy  Spirit  to  them  that  ask  Him !" 

And  I  looked  to  see.  And  there  Catherine  Weit 
sat,  looking  me  in  the  face. 

There  likewise  sat  Mrs  Oldcastle,  looking  me  in  the 
face  too. 

And  Judy  sat  there,  also  looking  me  in  the  face,  aa 
serious  as  man  could  wish  grown  woman  to  look. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  ORGAN. 

'NE  little  matter  I  forgot  to  mention  as  having 
been  talked  about  between  Dr  Duncan  and 
myself  that  same  evening.     I  happened  to 
refer  to  Old  Rogers. 
""What  a  fine  old  fellow  that  is  !"  said  Dr  Duncan. 
"  Indeed  he  is,"  I  answered.     "  He  is  a  great  comfort 
and  help  to  me.     I  don't  think  anybody  but  myself  has 
an  idea  what  there  is  in  that  old  man." 

"  The  people  in  the  village  don't  quite  like  him, 
though,  I  find.  He  is  too  ready  to  be  down  upon  them 
when  he  sees  things  going  amiss.  The  fact  is,  they  are 
afraid  of  him." 

"  Something  as  the  Jews  were  afraid  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist, because  he  was  an  honest  man,  and  spoke  not  merely 
his  own  mind,  but  the  mind  of  God  in  it.'* 

"Just  so.  I  believe  you're  quite  right.  Do  you 
know,  the  other  day,  happening  to  go  into  Weir's  shop 


THE    ORGAN.  329 


to  get  him  to  do  a  job  for  me,  I  found  him  and  Old 
Rogers  at  close  quarters  in  an  argument  1  I  could  not 
well  understand  the  drift  of  it,  not  having  been  present 
at  the  beginning,  but  I  soon  saw  that,  keen  as  Weir  was, 
and  far  surpassing  Rogers  in  correctness  of  cpeech,  and 
precision  as  well,  the  old  sailor  carried  too  heavy  metal 
for  the  carpenter.  It  evidently  annoyed  Weir ;  but  such 
was  the  good  humour  of  Rogers,  that  he  could  not,  for 
very  shame,  lose  his  temper,  the  old  man's  smile  again 
and  again  compelling  a  response  on  the  thin  cheeks  of 
fhe  other." 

"  I  know  how  he  would  talk  exactly,"  I  returned. 
**  He  has  a  kind  of  loving  banter  with  him,  if  you  will 
allow  me  the  expression,  that  is  irresistible  to  any  man 
with  a  heart  in  his  bosom.  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  there 
is  anything  like  communion  begun  between  them.  Weir 
will  get  good  from  him." 

"  My  man-of-all-work  is  going  to  leave  me.  I  wonder 
if  the  old  man  would  take  his  place  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  he  is  fit  for  it.  But  of  one 
thing  you  may  be  sure — if  Old  Rogers  does  not  honestly 
believe  he  is  fit  for  it,  he  will  not  take  it.  And  he  will 
tell  you  why,  too." 

"  Of  that,  however,  I  think  I  may  be  a  better  judge 
than  he.  There  is  nothing  to  which  a  good  sailor  cannot 
turn  his  hand,  whatever  he  may  think  himself  You  see, 
Mr  Walton,  it  is  not  like  a  routine  trade.  Things  are 
never  twice  the  same  at  sea.  The  sailor  has  a  thousand 
chances  of  using  his  judgment,  if  he  has  any  to  use ;  and 
that  Old  Rogers  has  in  no  common  degree.     So  I  should 


3,^0  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

have  no  fear  of  him.  If  he  won't  let  me  steer  him,  you 
must  put  your  hand  to  the  tiller  for  me." 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  I  answered ;  "  for  nothing 
would  please  me  moie  than  to  see  him  in  your  service. 
It  would  be  much  better  for  him,  and  his  wife  too,  than 
living  by  uncertain  jobs  as  he  does  now." 

The  result  of  it  all  was,  that  Old  Rogers  consented  to 
try  for  a  month  ;  but  when  the  end  of  the  month  came, 
nothing  was  said  on  either  side,  and  the  old  man  re- 
mained. And  I  could  see  several  little  new  comforts 
about  the  cottage,  in  consequence  of  the  regularity  of  his 
wages. 

Now  I  must  report  another  occurrence  in  regular 
sequence. 

To  my  surprise,  and,  I  must  confess,  not  a  little  to  my 
discomposure,  when  I  rose  in  the  reading-desk  on  the 
day  after  this  dinner  with  Dr  Duncan,  I  saw  that  the 
Hall-pew  was  full.  Miss  Oldcastle  was  there  for  the  first 
time,  and,  by  her  side,  the  gentleman  whom  the  day  be- 
fore I  had  encountered  on  horseback.  He  sat  carelessly, 
easily,  contentedly — indifferently;  for,  although  I  never 
that  morning  looked  up  from  my  Prayer-book,  except 
involuntarily  in  the  changes  of  posture,  I  could  not  help 
seeing  that  he  was  always  behind  the  rest  of  the  congre- 
gation, as  if  he  had  no  idea  of  what  was  coming  next,  or 
did  not  care  to  conform.  Gladly  would  I,  that  day,  have 
shunned  the  necessity  of  preaching  that  was  laid  upon 
me.  "  But,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  shall  the  work  given  me 
to  do  fare  ill  because  of  the  perturbation  of  my  spirit  1 
No  harm  is  done,  though  I  sufiFer ;  but  much  harm  if  one 


THE    ORGAN.  331 

tone  fails  of  its  force  because  I  suffer."  I  therefore 
prayed  God  to  help  me  ;  and  feeling  the  right,  because 
I  felt  the  need,  of  looking  to  Him  for  aid,  I  cast  my  care 
upon  Him,  kept  my  thoughts  strenuously  away  from  that 
which  discomposed  me,  and  never  turned  my  eyes  to- 
wards the  Hall-pew  from  the  moment  I  entered  the  pul- 
pit. And  partly,  I  presume,  from  the  freedom  given  by 
the  sense  of  irresponsibility  for  the  result,  I  being  weak 
and  God  strong,  I  preached,  I  think,  a  better  sermon 
than  I  had  ever  preached  before.  But  when  I  got  into 
the  vestry  I  found  that  I  could  scarcely  stand  for  trem- 
bling ;  and  I  must  have  looked  ill,  for  when  my  attendant 
came  in  he  got  me  a  glass  of  wine  without  even  asking 
me  if  I  would  have  it,  although  it  was  not  my  custom  to 
take  any  there.  But  there  was  one  of  my  congregation 
that  morning  w^io  suffered  more  than  I  did  from  the 
presence  of  one  of  those  who  filled  the  Hall-pew. 

I  recovered  in  a  few  moments  from  my  weakness,  but, 
altogether  disinclined  to  face  any  of  my  congregation, 
went  out  at  my  vestry-door,  and  home  through  the  shrub- 
bery— a  path  I  seldom  used,  because  it  had  a  separatist 
look  about  it  When  I  got  to  my  study,  I  threw  myself 
on  a  couch,  and  fell  fast  acleep.  How  often  in  trouble 
have  I  had  to  thank  God  for  sleep  as  foi  one  of  His  best 
gifts !  And  how  often  when  I  have  awaked  refreshed 
and  calm,  have  I  thought  of  poor  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who, 
dying  slowly  and  patiently  in  the  prime  of  life  and  health, 
was  sorely  troubled  in  his  mind  to  know  how  he  had 
offended  God,  because,  having  prayed  earnestly  for  sleep, 
no  sleep  came  in  answer  to  his  cry ! 


333  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  woke  just  in  time  for  my  afternoon  service ;  and  the 
inward  peace  in  which  I  found  my  heart  was  to  myself  a 
marvel  and  a  delight.  I  felt  almost  as  if  I  was  walking 
in  a  blessed  dream  come  from  a  world  of  serener  air  than 
this  of  ours.  I  found,  after  I  was  already  in  the  reading- 
desk,  that  I  was  a  few  minutes  early;  and  while,  with 
bowed  head,  I  was  simply  living  in  the  consciousness  of 
the  presence  of  a  supreme  quiet,  the  first  low  notes  of 
the  organ  broke  upon  my  stillness  with  the  sense  of  a 
deeper  delight.  Never  before  had  I  felt,  as  I  felt  that 
afternoon,  the  triumph  of  contemplation  in  Handel's 
rendering  of  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth."  And 
I  felt  how  through  it  all  ran  a  cold  silvery  quiver  of  sad- 
ness, like  the  light  in  the  east  after  the  sun  is  gone  down, 
which  would  have  been  pain,  but  for  the  golden  glow  of 
the  west,  which  looks  after  the  light  of  the  world  with  a 
patient  waiting. — Before  the  music  ceased,  it  had  crossed 
my  mind  that  I  had  never  before  heard  that  organ  utter 
itself  in  the  language  of  Handel.  But  I  had  no  time  to 
think  more  about  it  just  then,  for  I  rose  to  read  the 
words  of  our  Lord,  "  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father." 

There  was  no  one  in  the  Hall-pew ;  indeed  it  M'as  a 
rare  occurrence  if  any  one  was  there  in  the  afternoon. 

But  for  all  the  quietness  oi  my  mind  during  that 
evening  service,  I  felt  ill  before  I  went  to  bed,  and 
awoke  in  the  morning  with  a  headache,  which  increased 
along  with  other  signs  of  perturbation  of  the  system, 
until  I  thought  it  better  to  send  for  Dr  Duncan.  I  have 
not  yet  got  so  imbecile  as  to  suppose  that  a  history  of 
the  following  six  weeks  would  be   interesting  to  my 


THE    ORGAN.  333 


readers — for  during  so  long  did  I  suffer  from  low  fever ; 
and  more  weeks  passed  during  which  I  was  unable  to 
meet  my  flock.  Thanks  to  the  care  of  Mr  Brownrigg,  a 
clever  young  man  in  priest's  orders,  who  was  living  at 
Addicehead  while  waiting  for  a  curacy,  kindly  undertook 
my  duty  for  me,  and  thus  relieved  me  from  all  anxiety 
about  supplying  my  place. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    CHURCH-RATE. 

UT  I  cannot  express  equal  satisfaction  in  re- 
gard to  everything  that  Mr  Brownrigg  took 
upon  his  own  responsibility,  as  my  reader 
will  see.  He,  and  another  farmer,  his  neigh- 
bour, had  been  so  often  re-elected  churchwardens,  that 
at  last  they  seemed  to  have  gained  a  prescriptive  right 
to  the  office,  and  the  form  of  election  fell  into  disuse ; 
so  much  so,  that  after  Mr  Summer's  death,  which  took 
place  some  year  and  a  half  before  I  became  Vicar  of 
Marshmallows,  Mr  Brownrigg  continued  to  exercise  the 
duty  in  his  own  single  person,  and  nothing  had  as  yet 
been  said  about  the  election  of  a  colleague.  So  little 
seemed  to  fall  to  the  duty  of  the  churchwarden  that  I 
regarded  the  neglect  as  a  trifle,  and  was  remiss  in  setting 
it  right.  I  had,  therefore,  to  suffer,  as  was  just  In- 
deed, Mr  Brownrigg  was  not  the  man  to  have  power  in 
bis  hands  unchecked. 


THE    CHURCH-RATE.  335 

I  had  so  far  recovered  that  I  was  able  to  rise  about 
noon  and  go  into  my  study,  though  I  was  very  weak, 
and  had  not  yet  been  out,  when  one  morning  Mrs  Pear- 
son came  into  the  room  and  said, — 

"  Please,  sir,  here 's  young  Thomas  Weir  in  a  great 
way  about  something,  and  insisting  upon  seeing  you,  if 
you  possibly  can." 

I  had  as  yet  seen  very  few  of  my  friends,  except  the 
Doctor,  and  those  only  for  two  or  three  minutes ;  but 
although  I  did  not  feel  very  fit  for  seeing  anybody  just 
then,  I  could  not  but  yield  to  his  desire,  confident  there 
must  be  a  good  reason  for  it,  and  so  told  Mrs  Pearson 
to  show  him  in. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  know  you  would  be  vexed  if  you  hadn't 
been  told,"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  I  am  sure  you  will  not 
be  angry  with  me  for  troubling  you." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Tom  VI  said.  "  I  assure  you 
I  shall  not  be  angry  with  you." 

"  There 's  Farmer  Brownrigg,  at  this  very  moment, 
taking  away  Mr  Templeton's  table  because  he  won't 
pay  the  church-rate." 

"  What  church-rate  1"  I  cried,  starting  up  from  the 
sofa.     "  I  never  heard  of  a  church-rate." 

Now,  before  I  go  farther,  it  is  necessary  to  explam 
some  things.  One  day  before  I  was  taken  ill,  I  had  had 
a  little  talk  with  Mr  Brownrigg  about  some  repairs  of  the 
church  which  were  necessary,  and  must  be  done  before 
another  winter.  I  confess  I  was  rather  pleased ;  for  I 
wanted  my  people  to  feel  that  the  church  wag  their 
property,  and  that  it  was  their  privilege,  if  they  could 


336  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

regard  it  as  a  blessing  to  have  the  church,  to  keep  it  ia 
decent  order  and  repair.  So  I  said,  in  a  by-the-by  way, 
to  my  churchwarden,  "  We  must  call  a  vestry  befoi  e 
long,  and  have  this  looked  to."  Now  my  predecessor 
had  left  everything  of  the  kind  to  his  churchwardens; 
and  the  inhabitants  from  their  side  had  likewise  left  the 
whole  affair  to  the  churchwardens.  But  Mr  Brownrigg, 
who,  I  must  say,  had  taken  more  pains  than  might 
have  been  expected  of  him  to  make  himself  acquainted 
with  the  legalities  of  his  office,  did  not  fail  to  call  a 
vestry,  to  which,  as  usual,  no  one  had  responded; 
whereupon  he  imposed  a  rate  according  to  his  own 
unaided  judgment.  This,  I  believe,  he  did  during  my 
illness,  with  the  notion  of  pleasing  me  by  the  discovery 
that  the  repairs  had  been  already  effected  according 
to  my  mind.  Nor  did  any  one  of  my  congregation 
throw  the  least  difficulty  in  the  churchwarden's  way. — 
And  now  I  must  refer  to  another  circumstance  in  the 
history  of  my  parish. 

I  think  I  have  already  alluded  to  the  fact  that  there 
were  Dissenters  in  Marshmallows.  There  was  a  little 
chapel  down  a  lane  leading  from  the  main  street  of  the 
village,  in  which  there  was  service  three  times  every 
Sunday.  People  came  to  it  from  many  parts  of  the 
parish,  amongst  whom  were  the  families  of  two  or  three 
farmers  of  substance,  while  the  village  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood contributed  a  portion  of  the  poorest  Oi  the 
inhabitants.  A  year  or  two  before  I  came,  their  minister 
died,  and  they  had  chosen  another,  a  very  worthy  man, 
of  considerable  erudition,  but  of  extreme  views,  as  I 


THE    CHURCH-RATE.  3.^7 

heard,  upon  insignificant  points,  and  moved  by  a  great 
dislike  to  national  churches  and  episcopacy.  This,  I 
say,  is  what  I  had  made  out  about  him  from  what  I  had 
heard ;  and  my  reader  will  very  probably  be  inclined  to 
ask,  "  But  why,  with  principles  such  as  yours,  should 
you  have  only  hearsay  to  go  upon?  Why  did  you  not 
make  the  honest  man's  acquaintance  1  In  such  a  small 
place,  men  should  not  keep  each  other  at  arm's  length." 
And  any  reader  who  says  so,  will  say  right.  All  I  have 
to  suggest  for  myself  is  simply  a  certain  shyness,  for 
which  I  cannot  entirely  account,  but  which  was  partly 
made  up  of  fear  to  intrude,  or  of  being  supposed  to 
arrogate  to  myself  the  right  of  making  advances,  partly 
of  a  dread  lest  we  should  not  be  able  to  get  on  to- 
gether, and  so  the  attempt  should  result  in  something 
unpleasantly  awkward.  I  daresay,  likewise,  that  the 
natural  s/ie//mess  of  the  English  had  something  to  do  with 
it.     At  all  events,  I  had  not  made  his  acquaintance. 

Mr  Templeton,  then,  had  refused,  as  a  point  of  con- 
science, to  pay  the  church-rate  when  the  collector  went 
round  to  demand  it;  had  been  summoned  before  a 
magistrate  in  consequence ;  had  suffered  a  default ;  and, 
proceedings  being  pushed  from  the  first  in  all  the  pride 
of  Mr  Brownrigg's  legality,  had  on  this  very  day  been 
visited  by  the  churchwarden,  accompanied  by  a  broker 
from  the  neighbouring  town  of  Addicehead,  and  at  the 
very  time  when  I  was  hearing  of  the  fact  was  suffering 
distraint  of  his  goods.  The  porcine  head  of  the  church- 
MT^rden  was  not  on  his  shoulders  by  accident,  nor  with* 
put  significance. 


33^  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

But  I  did  not  wait  to  understand  all  this  now.  It 
was  enough  for  me  that  Tom  bore  witness  to  the  fact 
that  at  that  moment  proceedings  were  thus  driven  to 
extremity.  I  rang  the  bell  for  my  boots,  and,  to  the 
open-mouthed  dismay  of  Mrs  Pearson,  left  the  vicarage 
leaning  on  Tom's  arm.  But  such  was  the  commotion 
in  my  mind,  that  I  had  become  quite  unconscious  of 
illness  or  even  feebleness.  Hurrying  on  in  more  terror 
than  I  can  well  express  lest  I  should  be  too  late,  I  reached 
Mr  Templeton's  house  just  as  a  small  mahogany  table 
was  being  hoisted  into  a  spring-cart  which  stood  at 
the  door.  Breathless  with  haste,  I  was  yet  able  to  call 
out, — 

"  Put  that  table  down  directly." 

At  the  same  moment  Mr  Brownrigg  appeared  from 
within  the  door.  He  approached  with  the  self-satisfied 
look  of  a  man  who  has  done  his  duty,  and  is  proud  of 
it.     I  think  he  had  not  heard  me. 

"  You  see  I  'm  prompt,  Mr  Walton,"  he  said.  "  But, 
bless  my  soul,  how  ill  you  look  ! " 

Without  answering  him — for  I  was  more  angry  with 
him  than  I  ought  to  have  been — I  repeated — 

"  Put  that  table  down,  I  tell  you." 

They  did  so. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "  carry  it  back  into  the  house." 

"  Why,  sir,"  interposed  Mr  Brownngg,  "  it 's  all 
right" 

•*  Yes,"  I  said,  "  as  right  as  the  devil  would  have  it" 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  have  done  everything  acvo^ding 
to  law." 


THE    CHURCH-RATB.  339 

"  I  'm  not  SO  sure  of  that.  I  believe  I  had  the  right 
to  be  chairman  at  the  vestry-meeting ;  but,  instead  of 
even  letting  me  know,  you  took  advantage  of  my  ill- 
ness to  hurry  on  matters  to  this  shameful  and  wicked 
excess." 

I  did  the  poor  man  wrong  in  this,  for  I  believe  he 
had  hurried  things  really  to  please  me.  His  face  had 
lengthened  considerably  by  this  time,  and  its  rubicund 
hue  declined. 

"I  did  not  think  you  would  stand  upon  ceremony 
about  it,  sir.     You  never  seemed  to  care  for  business." 

"  If  you  talk  about  legality,  so  will  I.  Certainly  you 
don't  stand  upon  ceremony." 

"  I  didn't  expect  you  would  turn  against  your  own 
churchwarden  in  the  execution  of  his  duty,  sir,"  he  said 
in  an  offended  tone.  "It's  bad  enough  to  have  a 
meetin'-house  in  the  place,  without  one's  own  parson 
siding  with  t'other  parson  as  won't  pay  a  lawful  church- 
rate." 

"I  would  have  paid  the  church-rate  for  the  whole 
parish  ten  times  over  before  such  a  thing  should  have 
happened.  I  feel  so  disgraced,  I  am  ashamed  to  look 
Mr  Templeton  in  the  face.  Carry  that  table  into  the 
house  again,  directly." 

"It's  my  property,  now,"  interposed  the  broker. 
'^  I  've  bought  it  of  the  churchwarden,  and  paid  for  it." 

I  turned  to  Mr  Brownrigg. 

"  How  much  did  he  give  you  for  it  1 "  I  asked. 

"Twenty  shillings,"  returned  he,  sulkily,  "and  it 
won't  pay  expenses." 


340  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Twenty  shillings  ! "  I  exclaimed ;  "  for  a  table  that 
cost  three  times  as  much  at  least ! — What  do  you  ex- 
pect to  sell  it  for  ? " 

"  That 's  my  business,"  answered  the  broker. 

I  pulled  out  my  purse,  and  threw  a  sovereign  and  a 
half  on  the  table,  saying — 

"  Fifty  per  cent,  will  be,  I  think,  profit  enough  even 
on  such  a  transaction." 

"  I  did  not  offer  you  the  table,"  returned  the  broker. 
"  I  am  not  bound  to  sell  except  I  please,  and  at  my 
own  price." 

"  Possibly.  But  I  tell  you  the  whole  affair  is  illegal. 
And  if  you  carry  away  that  table,  I  shall  see  what  the 
law  will  do  for  me.  I  assure  you  I  will  prosecute  you 
myself.  You  take  up  that  money,  or  I  will.  It  will 
go  to  pay  counsel,  I  give  you  my  word,  if  you  do  not 
take  it  to  quench  strife." 

I  stretched  out  my  hand.  But  the  broker  was  before 
me.  Without  another  word,  he  pocketed  the  money, 
jumped  into  his  cart  with  his  man,  and  drove  off,  leav- 
ing the  churchwarden  and  the  parson  standing  at  the 
door  of  the  dissenting  minister  with  his  mahogany  table 
or.  th'e  path  between  them. 

"  Now,  Mr  Brownrigg,"  I  said,  "  lend  me  a  hand  to 
carry  this  table  in  again." 

He  yielded,  not  graciously, — that  could  not  be  ex- 
pected,— but  in  silence. 

"  Oh !  sir,"  interposed  young  Tom,  who  had  stood 
by  during  the  dispute,  "let  me  take  it.  You're  no! 
able  to  lift  it" 


THE    CHURCH-RATE.  34I 

"Nonsense!  Tom.  Keep  away,"  I  said.  "It  is  all 
the  reparation  I  can  make." 

And  so  Mr  Brownrigg  and  I  blundered  into  the  little 
parlour  with  our  burden — not  a  great  one,  but  I  began 
to  find  myself  failing. 

Mr  Templeton  sat  in  a  Windsor  chair  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  Evidently  the  table  had  been  carried 
away  from  before  him,  leaving  his  position  uncovered. 
The  floor  was  strewed  with  the  books  which  had  lain 
upon  it.  He  sat  reading  an  old  folio,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.     But  when  we  entered  he  rose. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  size,  about  forty,  with  short 
black  hair  and  overhanging  bushy  eyebrows.  His  mouth 
indicated  great  firmness,  not  unmingled  with  sweetness, 
and  even  with  humour.  He  smiled  as  he  rose,  but 
looked  embarrassed,  glancing  first  at  the  table,  then  at 
me,  and  then  at  Mr  Brownrigg,  as  if  begging  somebody 
to  tell  him  what  to  say.  But  I  did  not  leave  him  a 
moment  in  this  perplexity. 

"  Mr  Templeton,"  I  said,  quitting  the  table,  and  hold- 
ing out  my  hand,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  myself  and 
my  friend  here,  my  churchwarden" — Mr  Brownrigg 
gave  a  grunt — "that  you  should  have  been  annoyed 
like  this.     1  have " 

Mr  Templeton  interrupted  me. 

"  I  assure  you  it  was  a  matter  of  conscience  with  me/ 
he  said.     "  On  no  other  ground —  " 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  \  said,  interrupting  him  in  my 
turn.  "  I  beg  your  pardon ;  and  I  have  done  my  best 
to  make  amends  for  it.    Offences  must  come,  you  know, 


342  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 

Mr  Templeton ;  but  I  trust  I  have  not  incurred  the  woe 
that  follows  upon  them  by  means  of  whom  they  come, 
for  I  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  indeed  was  too  ill " 

Here  my  strength  left  me  altogether,  and  I  sat  down. 
The  room  began  to  whirl  round  me,  and  I  remembef 
nothing  more  till  I  knew  that  I  was  lying  on  a  couch, 
with  Mrs  Templeton  bathing  my  forehead,  and  Mr 
Templeton  trying  to  get  something  into  my  mouth  with 
a  spoon. 

Ashamed  to  find  myself  in  such  circumstances,  I  tried 
to  rise ;  but  Mr  Templeton,  laying  his  hand  on  mine, 
said — 

"My  dear  sir,  add  to  your  kindness  this  day,  by 
letting  my  wife  and  me  minister  to  you." 

Now,  was  not  that  a  courteous  speech?  He  went 
on — 

"Mr  Brownrigg  has  gone  for  Dr  Duncan,  and  will 
be  back  in  a  few  moments.  I  beg  you  will  not  exert 
yourself." 

I  yielded  and  lay  still.  Dr  Duncan  came.  His  car- 
riage followed,  and  I  was  taken  home.  Before  we 
started,  I  said  to  Mr  Brownrigg — for  I  could  not  rest 
till  I  had  said  it — 

"  Mr  Brownrigg,  I  spoke  in  heat  when  I  came  up  to 
you,  and  I  am  sure  I  did  you  wrong.  I  am  certain  you 
had  no  improper  motive  in  not  making  me  acquainted 
with  your  proceedings.  You  meant  no  harm  to  me. 
But  you  did  very  wrong  towards  Mr  Templeton.  I  will 
try  to  show  you  that  when  I  am  well  again ;  but " 

"  But  you  mustn't  talk  more  now,"  said  Dr  Duncan. 


THE    CHURCH-RATE.  343 

So  I  shook  hands  with  Mr  Brownrigg,  and  we  parted. 
I  fear,  from  what  I  know  ot  my  churchwarden,  that  he 
went  home  with  the  conviction  that  he  had  done  per- 
fectly right ;  and  that  the  parson  had  made  an  apology 
for  interfering  with  a  churchwarden  who  was  doing  his 
best  to  uphold  the  dignity  of  Church  and  State.  But 
perhaps  I  may  be  doing  him  WTong  again. 

I  went  home  to  a  week  more  of  bed,  and  a  lengthened 
process  of  recovery,  during  which  many  were  the  kind 
inquiries  made  after  me  by  my  friends,  and  amongst 
them  by  Mr  Templeton. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  sketch  the  result  of  that 
strange  introduction  to  the  dissenting  minister. 

After  I  was  tolerably  well  again,  I  received  k  friendly 
letter  from  him  one  day,  expostulating  with  me  on  the 
inconsistency  of  my  remaining  within  the  pale  of  the 
Established.  Church.  The  gist  of  the  letter  lay  in  these 
words  : — 

"  I  confess  it  perplexes  me  to  understand  how  to 
reconcile  your  Christian  and  friendly  behaviour  to  one 
whom  most  of  your  brethren  would  consider  as  much 
beneath  their  notice  as  inferior  to  them  in  social  posi- 
tion, with  your  remaining  the  minister  of  a  Church  in 
which  such  enormities  as  you  employed  your  private 
influence  to  counteract  in  my  case,  are  not  only  pos- 
sible, but  certainly  lawful,  and  recognized  by  most  ol 
its  members  as  likewise  expedient" 

To  this  I  replied  :— 


344  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — I  do  not  like  writing  letters,  espe- 
cially on  subjects  of  importance.  There  are  a  thousand 
chances  of  misunderstanding.  Whereas,  in  a  personal 
interview,  there  is  a  possibility  of  controversy  being 
hallowed  by  communion.  Come  and  dine  with  me 
to-moiTow,  at  any  hour  convenient  to  you,  and  make 
my  apologies  to  Mrs  Templeton  for  not  inviting  her 
with  you,  on  the  ground  that  we  want  to  have  a  long 
talk  with  each  other  without  the  distracting  influence 
■which  even  her  presence  would  unavoidably  occasion, 

"  I  am,"  &c.  &c. 

He  accepted  my  invitation  at  once.  During  dinner 
we  talked  away,  not  upon  indifferent,  but  upon  the 
most  interesting  subjects — connected  with  the  poor,  and 
parish  work,  and  the  influence  of  the  higher  upon  the 
lower  classes  of  society.  At  length  we  sat  down  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  fire ;  and  as  soon  as  Mrs  Pearson 
had  shut  the  door,  I  said, — 

"  You  ask  me,  Mr  Templeton,  in  your  very  kind  letter 
"  and  here  I  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket  to  find  it. 

"  I  asked  you,"  interposed  Mr  Templeton,  "  how  you 
could  belong  to  a  Church  which  authorizes  tilings  of 
which  you  yourself  so  heartily  disapprove." 

"  And  I  answer  you,"  I  returned,  "  that  just  to  such 
a  Church  our  Lord  belonged." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you.** 

"  Our  Lord  belonged  to  the  Jewish  Church.** 

"  But  ours  is  His  Church." 

**  Yes.     But  principles  remain  the  same.     I  speak  oi 


THE    CHURCH-RATE.  345 

Him  as  belonging  to  a  Church.  His  conduct  would  be 
the  same  in  the  same  circumstances,  whatever  Churcl 
He  belonged  to,  because  He  would  always  do  right.  | 
want,  if  you  will  allow  me,  to  show  you  the  principU 
upon  which  He  acted  with  regard  to  church-rates." 

"  Certainly.     I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you." 

"  The  Pharisees  demanded  a  tribute,  which,  it  is 
allowed,  was  for  the  support  of  the  temple  and  its  wor- 
ship. Our  Lord  did  not  refuse  to  acknowledge  their 
authority,  notwithstanding  the  many  ways  in  which  thsy 
had  degraded  the  religious  observances  of  the  Jewish 
Church.  He  acknowledged  himself  a  child  of  the 
Church,  but  said  that,  as  a  child.  He  ought  to  have 
been  left;  to  contribute  as  He  pleased  to  the  support 
of  its  ordinances,  and  not  to  be  compelled  after  such 
a  fashion." 

"  There  I  have  you,"  exclaimed  Mr  Templeton.  "  He 
said  they  were  wrong  to  make  the  tribute,  or  church- 
rate,  if  it  really  was  such,  compulsory." 

*'  I  grant  it :  it  is  entirely  wrong — a  very  unchristian 
proceeding.  But  our  Lord  did  not  therefore  desert  the 
Church,  as  you  would  have  me  do.  He  paid  the  money, 
lest  He  should  offend.  And  not  having  it  of  His  own, 
He  had  to  ask  His  Father  for  it ;  or,  what  came  to  the 
same  thing,  make  a  servant  of  His  Father,  namely,  a 
f>sh  in  the  sea  of  Galilee,  bring  Him  the  money.  And 
there  I  have  you,  Mr  Templeton.  It  is  wrong  to  compel, 
and  wrong  to  refuse,  the  payment  of  a  church-rate.  I 
do  not  say  equally  wrong :  it  is  much  worse  t©  compel 
than  to  refuse." 


346  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  You  are  very  generous,"  returned  Mr  Templeton. 
"  May  I  hope  that  you  will  do  me  the  credit  to  believe 
tliat  if  I  saw  clearly  that  they  were  the  same  thing,  I 
would  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  follow  our  Lord's  ex- 
ample." 

"  I  believe  it  perfectly.  Therefore,  however  we  may 
differ,  we  are  in  reality  at  no  strife." 

"  But  is  there  not  this  difference,  that  our  Lord  was, 
as  you  say,  a  child  of  the  Jewish  Church,  which  was 
indubitably  established  by  God?  Now,  if  I  cannot 
conscientiously  belong  to  the  so-called  English  Church, 
why  should  I  have  to  pay  church-rate  or  tribute  1 " 

*'  Shall  I  tell  you  the  argument  the  English  Church 
might  then  use  1  The  Church  might  say,  '  Then  you 
are  a  stranger,  and  no  child ;  therefore,  like  the  kings 
of  the  earth,  we  may  take  tribute  of  you.'  So  you  see 
it  would  come  to  this,  that  Dissenters  alone  should  be 
compelled  to  pay  church-rates." 

We  both  laughed  at  this  pushing  of  the  argument  to 
illegitimate  conclusions.     Then  I  resumed  : 

"  But  the  real  argument  is  that  not  for  s'ich  faults 
should  we  separate  from  each  other ;  not  for  such  faults, 
or  any  faults,  so  long  as  it  is  the  repository  of  the  truth, 
should  you  separate  from  the  Church." 

"  I  will  yield  the  point  when  you  can  show  me  the 
same  ground  for  believing  the  Church  of  England  iht 
National  Churchy  appointed  such  by  God,  that  I  can 
show  you,  and  you  know  already,  for  receiving  the 
Jewish  Church  as  the  appointment  of  God." 

"  That  would  involve  a  long  argument,  upon  which. 


THE    CHURCH-RATE.  34? 

though  I  have  little  doubt  upon  the  matter  myself,  T 
•-.annot  say  I  am  prepared  to  enter  at  this  moment. 
Meantime,  I  would  just  ask  you  whether  you  are  not 
sufficiently  a  child  of  the  Church  of  England,  havine 
received  from  it  a  thousand  influences  for  good,  if  i:i 
no  other  way,  yet  through  your  fathers,  to  find  it  no 
great  hardship,  and  not  very  unreasonable,  to  pay  a 
trifle  to  keep  in  repair  one  of  the  tabernacles  in  which 
our  forefathers  worshipped  together,  if,  as  I  hope  you 
will  allow,  in  some  imperfect  measure  God  is  worshipped, 
and  the  truth  is  preached  in  it  1 " 

"  Most  willingly  would  I  pay  the  money.  I  object 
simply  because  the  rate  is  compulsory." 

"And  therein  you  have  our  Lord's  example  to  the 
contrary." 

A  silence  followed ;  for  I  had  to  deal  with  an  honest 
man,  who  was  thinking.     I  resumed  : — 

**  A  thousand  difficulties  will  no  doubt  come  up  to 
be  considered  in  the  matter.  Do  not  suppose  I  am 
anxious  to  convince  you.  I  believe  that  our  Father, 
our  Elder  Brother,  and  the  Spirit  that  proceedeth  from 
them,  is  teaching  you,  as  I  believe  I  too  am  being  taught 
by  the  same.  Why,  then,  should  I  be  anxious  to  con- 
vince you  of  anything  1  Will  you  not  in  His  good  time 
come  to  see  what  He  would  have  you  see  t  I  am  re- 
lieved to  speak  my  mind,  knowing  He  would  have  us 
speak  our  minds  to  each  other ;  but  I  do  not  want  to 
prosely*.'ze.  If  you  change  your  mind,  you  will  probably 
do  so  on  different  grounds  from  any  I  give  you,  on 
grounds  which  show  themselves  in  the  course  of  youi 


348  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

own  search  after  the  foundations  of  tnith  in  regard 
perhaps  to  some  other  question  altogether." 

Again  a  silence  followed.  Then  Mr  Templeton 
spoke  : — 

"  Don't  think  I  am  satisfied,"  he  said,  "  because  I 
don't  choose  to  say  anything  more  till  I  have  thought 
about  it.  I  think  you  are  wrong  in  your  conclusions 
about  the  Church,  though  surely  you  are  right  in  think- 
ing we  ought  to  have  patience  with  each  other.  And 
now  tell  me  true,  Mr  Walton, — I'm  a  blunt  kind  of 
man,  descended  from  an  old  Puritan,  one  of  Cromwell's 
Ironsides,  I  believe,  and  I  haven't  been  to  a  university 
like  you,  but  I  'm  no  fool  either,  I  hope, — don't  be 
offended  at  my  question :  wouldn't  you  be  glad  to  see 
me  out  of  your  parish  now  1 " 

I  began  to  speak,  but  he  went  on. 

"  Don't  you  regard  me  as  an  interloper  now — one  who 
has  no  right  to  speak  because  he  does  not  belong  to  the 
Church  r' 

*'  God  forbid ! "  I  answered.  "  If  a  word  of  mine 
would  make  you  leave  my  parish  to-morrow,  I  dare  not 
say  it.  I  do  not  want  to  .incur  the  rebuke  of  our  Lord 
— for  surely  the  words  '  Forbid  him  not '  involved  some 
rebuke.  Would  it  not  be  a  fearful  thing  that  one  soul, 
because  of  a  deed  of  mine,  should  receive  a  less  portion 
of  elevation  or  comfort  in  his  journey  towards  his  homel 
Are  there  not  countless  modes  of  saying  the  truth  1  You 
have  some  of  them.  I  hope  I  have  some.  People  will 
hear  you  who  will  not  hear  me.  Preach  to  them  in  the 
name  and  love  of  God,  Mr  Templeton.     Speak  that  you 


THE    CHURCH-RATE.  345 

do  know  and  testify  that  you  have  seen.  You  and  1 
will  help  each  other,  in  proportion  as  we  serve  the 
Master.  I  only  say  that  in  separating  from  us  you  are 
in  effect,  and  by  your  conduct,  saying  to  us,  '  Do  not 
preach,  for  you  follow  not  with  us.'  I  will  not  be  guilty 
of  the  same  towards  you.  Your  fathers  did  the  Church 
no  end  of  good  by  leaving  it.  But  it  is  time  to  unite 
now." 

Once  more  followed  a  silence.' 

"  If  people  could  only  meet,  and  look  each  other  in 
the  face,"  said  Mr  Templeton  at  length,  "  they  might 
find  there  was  not  such  a  gulf  between  them  as  they  had 
fancied." 

And  so  we  parted. 

Now  I  do  not  write  all  this  for  the  sake  of  the  church- 
rate  question.  I  write  it  to  commemorate  the  spirit  in 
which  Mr  Templeton  met  me.  For  it  is  of  consequence 
that  two  men  who  love  their  Master  should  recognize 
each  that  the  other  does  so,  and  thereupon,  if  not  before, 
should  cease  to  be  estranged  because  of  difference  of 
opinion,  which  surely,  inevitable  as  offence,  does  not 
involve  the  same  denunciation  of  woe. 

After  this  Mr  Templeton  and  I  found  some  oppor- 
tunities of  helping  each  other.  And  many  a  time  ere 
his  death  we  consulted  together  about  things  that  befell. 
Once  he  came  to  me  about  a  legal  difficulty  in  con- 
nexion with  the  deed  of  trust  of  his  chapel ;  and  although 
I  could  not  help  him  myself,  I  directed  him  to  such  help 
as  was  thorough  and  cost  him  nothing. 

I  need  not  say  he  never  became  a  churchman,  or  that 


3SO  ANNALS    OF    A    •::UIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  never  expected  he  would.  All  his  memories  of  a  reli- 
gious childhood,  all  the  sources  of  the  influences  which 
had  refined  and  elevated  him,  were  surrounded  with 
other  associations  than  those  of  the  Church  and  her 
forms.  The  Church  was  his  grandmother,  not  his 
mother,  and  he  had  not  made  any  acquaintance  with 
her  till  comparatively  late  in  life. 

But  while  I  do  not  say  that  his  intellectual  objections 
to  the  Church  were  less  strong  than  they  had  been,  I  am 
sure  that  his  feelings  were  moderated,  even  changed 
towards  her.  And  though  this  may  seem  of  no  conse- 
quence to  one  who  loves  the  Church  more  than  the 
brotherhood,  it  does  not  seem  of  little  consequence  to 
me  who  love  the  Church  because  of  the  brotherhood  of 
which  it  is  the  type  and  the  restorer. 

It  was  long  before  another  church-rate  was  levied  in 
Marshmallows.  And  when  the  circumstance  did  take 
place,  no  one  dreamed  of  calling  on  Mr  Templeton  for 
his  share  in  it.  But,  having  heard  of  it,  he  called  him- 
self upon  the  churchwarden — Mr  Brownrigg  still — and 
offered  the  money  cheerfully.  And  Mr  Brownrigg  re- 
fused to  take  it  till  he  had  consulted  me  I  I  told  him  to 
call  on  Mr  Templeton,  and  say  he  would  be  much 
obliged  to  him  for  his  contribution,  and  give  him  a 
receipt  for  it 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

JUDY'S  NEWS. 

ERHAPS  my  reader  may  be  sufficiently  inter 
ested  in  the  person,  who,  having  once  begun 
to  tell  his  story,  may  possibly  have  allowed 
his  feelings,  in  concert  with  the  comfortable 
confidence  afforded  by  the  mask  of  namelessness,  to  run 
away  with  his  pen,  and  so  have  babbled  of  himself  more 
than  he  ought — may  be  sufficiently  interested,  I  say,  in 
my  mental  condition,  to  cast  a  speculative  thought  upon 
the  state  of  my  mind,  during  my  illness,  with  regard  to 
Miss  Oldcastle  and  the  stranger  who  was  her  mother's 
guest  at  the  Hall.  Possibly,  being  by  nature  gifted,  as 
I  have  certainly  discovered,  with  more  of  hope  than  is 
usually  mingled  with  the  othei  elements  composing  the 
temperament  of  humanity,  I  did  not  suffer  quite  so 
much  as  some  would  have  suffered  during  such  an  ill- 
ness. But  I  have  reason  to  fear  that  when  I  was  light- 
headed from  fever,  which  was  a  not  uncommon  occiuv 


35*  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

rence,  especially  in  the  early  mornings  during  the  worst 
of  my  illness — when  Mrs  Pearson  had  to  sit  up  with  me, 
and  sometimes  an  old  WQman  oi"  the  village  who  was 
generally  called  in  upon  such  occasions — I  may  have 
talked  a  good  dtal  of  nonsense  about  Miss  Oldcastle. 
For  I  remember  that  I  was  haunted  with  visions  of  mag- 
nificent conventual  ruins  which  I  had  discovered,  and 
which,  no  one  seeming  to  care  about  them  but  myself, 
I  was  left  to  wander  through  at  my  own  lonely  will. 
Would  I  could  see  with  the  waking  eye  such  a  grandeur 
of  Gothic  arches  and  "  long-drawn  aisles  "  as  then  arose 
upon  my  sick  sense !  Within  was  a  labyrinth  of  passages 
in  the  walls,  and  "  long-sounding  corridors,"  and  sudden 
galleries,  whence  I  looked  down  into  the  great  church 
aching  with  silence.  Through  these  I  was  ever  wander- 
ing, ever  discovering  new  rooms,  new  galleries,  new 
marvels  of  architecture;  ever  disappointed  and  ever 
dissatisfied,  because  I  knew  that  in  one  room  some- 
where in  the  forgotten  mysteries  of  the  pile  sat  Ethelwyn 
reading,  never  lifting  those  sea-blue  eyes  of  hers  from 
the  great  volume  on  her  knee,  reading  every  word, 
slowly  turning  leaf  after  leaf;  knew  that  she  would  sit 
there  reading,  till,  one  by  one,  every  leaf  in  the  huge 
volume  was  turned,  and  she  came  to  the  last  and  read  it 
from  top  to  bottom — down  to  the  finis  and  the  urn  with 
a  weeping  willow  over  it ;  when  she  would  close  the  book 
willi  a  sigh,  lay  it  doAvn  on  the  floor,  rise  and  walk 
slowly  away,  and  leave  the  glorious  ruin  dead  to  me  as 
it  had  so  long  been  to  every  one  else ;  knew  that  if  I 
did  not  find  her  before  that  terrible  last  page  was  read, 


Judy's  news.  353 

I  should  never  find  her  at  all ;  but  have  to  go  wander- 
ing alone  all  my  life  through  those  dreary  galleries  and 
coiridors,  with  one  hope  only  left — ^that  I  might  yet  be- 
fore I  died  find  the  *'  palace-chamber  far  apart,"  and  see 
tlie  read  and  forsaken  volume  lying  on  the  floor  wheie 
she  had  left  it,  and  the  chair  beside  it  upon  which  she 
had  sat  so  long  waiting  for  some  one  in  vain. 

And  perhaps  to  words  spoken  under  these  impressions 
may  partly  be  attributed  the  fact,  which  I  knew  nothing 
of  till  long  afterwards,  that  the  people  of  the  village 
began  to  couple  my  name  with  that  of  Miss  Oldcastle. 

When  all  this  vanished  from  me  in  the  returning  wave 
of  health  that  spread  through  my  weary  brain,  I  was  yet 
left  anxious  and  thoughtful.  There  was  no  one  from 
whom  I  could  ask  any  information  about  the  family  at 
the  Hall,  so  that  I  was  just  driven  to  the  best  thing — to 
try  to  cast  my  care  upon  Him  who  cared  for  my  care. 
How  often  do  we  look  upon  God  as  our  last  and  feeblest 
resource !  We  go  to  Him  because  we  have  nowhere 
else  to  go.  And  then  we  learn  that  the  storms  of  life 
have  driven  us,  not  upon  the  rocks,  but  into  the  desired 
haven ;  that  we  have  been  compelled,  as  to  the  last  re- 
maining, so  to  the  best,  the  only,  the  central  help,  the 
causing  cause  of  all  the  helps  to  which  we  had  turned 
aside  a^  nearer  and  better. 

One  day  when,  having  considerably  recovered  from 
my  second  attack,  I  was  sitting  reading  in  my  study, 
who  should  be  announced  but  my  friend  Judy ! 

"  Oh,  dear  Mr  Walton,  I  am  so  sorry  you  have  been 
80  ill ! "  exclaimed  the  impulsive  girl,  taking  my  hand  in 


354  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

both  of  hers,  and  sitting  down  beside  me.  "  I  haven't 
had  a  chance  of  coming  to  see  you  before ;  though  we  've 
always  managed — I  mean  auntie  and  I — to  hear  about 
jou.  I  would  have  come  to  nurse  you,  but  it  was  no 
use  thinking  of  it." 

I  smiled  as  I  thanked  her. 

"  Ah  !  you  think  because  I  'm  such  a  tom-boy,  that  I 
couldn't  nurse  you.  I  only  wish  I  had  had  a  chance  of 
letting  you  see.     I  am  so  sorry  for  you  ! " 

"  But  I  'm  nearly  well  now,  Judy,  and  I  have  been 
taken  good  care  of." 

*'  By  that  frumpy  old  thing,  Mrs  Pearson,  and " 

"  Mrs  Pearson  is  a  very  kind  woman,  and  an  excellent 
nurse,"  I  said ;  but  she  would  not  heed  me. 

"  And  that  awful  old  witch,  Mother  Goose.  She  was 
enough  to  give  you  bad  dreams  all  night  she  sat  by  you." 

"  1  didn't  dream  about  Mother  Goose,  as  you  call  her, 
Judy,  I  assure  you.  But  now  I  want  to  hear  how  every- 
body is  at  the  Hall." 

"  What,  grannie,  and  the  white  woL*,  and  all  ? " 

**  As  many  as  you  please  to  tell  me  about." 

**  Well,  grannie  is  gracious  to  everybody  but  auntie." 

"  Why  isn't  she  gracious  to  auntie  1  ** 

"  I  don't  know.     I  only  guess." 

"  Is  your  visitor  gone  1 " 

*'  Yes,  long  ago.  Do  you  know,  I  think  grannie  wants 
auntie  to  marry  him,  and  auntie  doesn't  quite  like  iti 
But  he 's  very  nice.  Pie 's  so  funny !  He  '11  be  back 
again  soon,  I  daresay.  I  don't  ^ui'fe  like  him — not  so 
well  as  you  by  a  whole  half,  Mr  Walton.     I  wish  you 


JUDY  S    NEWS.  355 

rt'ould  marry  auntie ;  but  that  would  never  do.  It  would 
drive  grannie  out  of  her  wits." 

To  stop  the  strange  girl,  and  hide  some  confusion,  I 
said : 

"  Now  tell  me  about  the  rest  of  them." 

"  Sarah  comes  next.  She 's  as  white  and  as  wolfy  as 
ever.  Mr  Walton,  I  hate  that  woman.  She  walks  like 
a  cat.     I  am  sure  she  is  bad." 

"  Did  you  ever  think,  Judy,  what  an  awful  thing  it  is 
to  be  bad  ]  If  you  did,  I  think  you  would  be  so  sorry 
for  her,  you  could  not  hate  her." 

At  the  same  time,  knowing  what  I  knew  now,  and 
remembering  that  impressions  can  date  from  farther  back 
than  the  memory  can  reach,  I  was  not  surprised  to  hear 
that  Judy  hated  Sarah,  though  I  could  not  believe  that 
in  such  a  child  the  hatred  was  of  the  most  deadly  de- 
scription. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  go  on  hating  in  the  meantime," 
said  Judy.  "  I  wish  some  one  would  marry  auntie,  and 
turn  Sarah  away.  But  that  couldn't  be,  so  long  as 
grannie  lives." 

"  How  is  Mr  Stoddart  1 " 

"  There  now  !  That 's  one  of  the  things  auntie  said  I 
was  to  be  sure  to  tell  you."  ^ 

"  Then  your  aunt  knew  you  were  coming  to  see 
mer' 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  told  her.  Not  grannie,  you  know. — ^You 
mustn't  let  it  out." 

"  I  shall  be  careful.     How  is  Mr  Stoddart,  then?" 

"  Not  well  at  all.     He  was  taken  ill  before  you,  and 


356  AVNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

has  been  in  bed  and  by  the  fireside  ever  since.  Auntie 
doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  him,  he  is  so  out  of 
spirits." 

"  If  to-morrow  is  fine,  I  shall  go  and  see  him." 

"  Thank  you.  I  believe  that 's  just  what  auntie 
wanted.  He  won't  like  it  at  first,  I  daresay.  But  he  '11 
come  to,  and  you  '11  do  him  good.  You  do  everybody 
good  you  come  near." 

"  I  wish  that  were  true,  Judy.  I  fear  it  is  not.  What 
good  did  I  ever  do  you,  Judy  ? " 

'*  Uo  me  ! "  she  exclaimed,  apparently  half  angry  at 
the  question.  "  Don't  you  know  I  have  been  an  altered 
character  ever  since  I  knew  you  1 " 

And  here  the  odd  creature  laughed,  leaving  me  in 
absolute  ignorance  of  how  to  interpret  her.  But  pre- 
sently her  eyes  grew  clearer,  and  I  could  see  the  slow 
film  of  a  tear  gathering. 

"  Mr  Walton,"  she  said,  "  I  Aave  been  trying  not  to  be 
selfish.     You  have  done  me  that  much  good." 

"  I  am  very  glad,  Judy.  Don't  fo;get  who  can  do  you 
a//  good.  There  is  One  who  can  not  only  show  you 
what  is  right,  but  can  make  you  able  to  do  and  be  what 
is  right.  You  don't  know  how  much  you  have  got  to 
learn  yet,  Judjy  but  there  is  that  one  Teacher  ever 
ready  to  teach  if  you  will  only  ask  Him." 

Judy  did  not  answer,  but  sat  looking  fixedly  at  the 
carpet.     She  was  thinking,  though,  I  saw. 

"  Who  has  played  the  organ,  Judy,  since  your  uncle 
was  taken  ill  1 "  I  asked,  at  length. 

"  Why,  auntie,  to  be  siure.     Didn't  you  hear  I" 


Judy's  news.  357 


"  No,"  I  answered,  turning  almost  sick  at  the  idea  of 
having  been  away  from  church  for  so  many  Sundays 
while  she  was  giving  voice  and  expression  to  the  dear 
asthmatic  old  pipes.  And  I  did  feel  very  ready  to  mur- 
mur, like  a  spoilt  child  that  had  not  had  his  way.  Think 
of  her  there,  and  me  here  ! 

"  Then,"  I  said  to  myself  at  last,  *'  it  must  have  been 
she  that  played  /  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  that  last 
time  I  was  in  church !  And  instead  of  thanking  God 
for  that,  here  I  am  murmuring  that  He  did  not  give  me 
more !  And  this  child  has  just  been  telling  me  that  I 
have  taught  her  to  try  not  to  be  selfish.  Certainly  I 
should  be  ashamed  of  myself" 

"  When  was  your  uncle  taken  ill  % " 

"  I  don't  exactly  remember.  But  you  will  come  and 
see  him  to-morrow?  And  then  we  shall  see  you  too. 
For  we  are  always  out  and  in  of  his  room  just  now." 

"  I  will  come  if  Dr  Duncan  will  let  me.  Perhaps  he 
will  take  me  in  his  carriage." 

"  No,  no.  Don't  you  come  with  him.  Uncle  can't 
bear  doctors.  He  never  was  ill  in  his  life  before,  and 
he  behaves  to  Dr  Duncan  just  as  if  he  had  made  him  ill. 
I  wish  I  could  send  the  carriage  for  you.  But  I  can't, 
you  know." 

"Never  mind,  Judy.  I  shall  manage  somehow. — 
What  is  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  was  staying 
with  you  % " 

"  Don't  you  know  %  Captain  George  Everard.  He 
would  change  his  name  to  Oldcastle,  you  know." 

What  a  foolish  pain,   like  a  spear-thrust,  they  sent 


3S8  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

through  me — those  words  spoken  in  such  a  taken-for- 
granted  way ! 

"  He 's  a  relation — on  grannie's  side  mostly,  I  believe. 
But  I  never  could  understand  the  explanation.  What 
makes  it  harder  is,  that  all  the  husbands  and  wives  in 
our  family,  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  have  been  more 
or  less  of  cousins,  or  half-cousins,  or  second  or  third 
cousins.  Captain  Everard  has  what  grandmamma  calls 
a  neat  little  property  of  his  own  from  his  mother,  some 
where  in  Northumberland ;  for  he  is  only  a  third  son, 
one  of  a  class  grannie  does  not  in  general  feel  very 
friendly  to,  I  assure  you,  Mr  Walton.  But  his  second 
brother  is  dead,  and  the  eldest  something  the  worse 
for  the  wear,  as  grannie  says ;  so  that  the  captain  comes 
just  within  sight  of  the  coronet  of  an  old  uncle  who 
ought  to  have  been  dead  long  ago.  Just  the  match  for 
auntie  1 " 

"  But  you  say  auntie  doesn't  like  him." 

"  Oh  !  but  you  know  that  doesn't  matter,"  returned 
Judy,  with  bitterness.  "  What  will  grannie  care  for 
that  ?  It 's  nothing  to  anybody  but  auntie,  and  she  must 
get  used  to  it.     Nobody  makes  anything  of  her." 

It  was  only  after  she  had  gone  that  I  thought  how 
astounding  it  would  have  been  to  me  to  hear  a  girl  ot 
her  age  show  such  an  acquaintance  with  worldliness 
and  scheming,  had  I  not  been  personally  so  much  con- 
cerned about  one  of  the  objects  of  her  remarks.  She 
certainly  was  a  strange  girl.  But  strange  as  she  was  it 
was  a  satisfaction  to  think  that  the  aunt  had  such  a 
friend  and  ally  in  her  wild  niece.     Evidently  she  had 


JUDY'S   NEWS.  359 

inherited  her  father's  fearlessness ;  and  if  only  it  should 
turn  out  that  she  had  likewise  inherited  her  mother's 
firmness,  she  might  render  the  best  possible  service  to 
her  aunt  against  the  oppression  of  her  wilful  mother. 

"  How  were  you  able  to  get  here  to-day]"  I  asked,  as 
she  rose  to  go. 

"  Grannie  is  in  London,  and  the  wolf  is  with  her. 
Auntie  wouldn't  leave  uncle." 

"  They  have  been  a  good  deal  in  London  of  late,  have 
they  not?" 

"  Yes.  They  say  it 's  about  money  of  auntie's.  But 
1  don't  understand.  /  think  it 's  that  grannie  wants  to 
make  the  captain  marry  her;  for  they  sometimes  see 
him  when  they  go  to  London." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  INVALID. 

HE  following  day  being  very  fine,  I  walked 
to  Oldcastle  Hall;  but  I  remember  well 
how  much  slower  I  was  forced  to  walk  than 
I  was  willing.  I  found  to  my  relief  that 
Mrs  Oldcastle  had  not  yet  returned.  I»was  shown  at 
once  to  Mr  Stoddart's  library.  There  I  found  the  two 
ladies  in  attendance  upon  him.  He  was  seated  by  a 
splendid  fire,  for  the  autumn  days  were  now  chilly  on 
the  shady  side,  in  the  most  luxurious  of  easy  chairs,  with 
his  furred  feet  buried  in  the  long  hair  of  the  hearth-rug. 
He  looked  worn  and  peevish.  All  the  placidity  of  his 
countenance  had  vanished.  The  smooth  expanse  of 
his  forehead  was  drawn  into  fifty  wrinkles,  like  a  sea 
over  which  the  fretting  wind  has  been  blowing  all  night 
Nor  was  it  only  suffering  that  his  face  expressed.  He 
looked  like  a  man  who  strongly  suspected  that  he  was 
ill-used. 


"^HE    INVALID.  361 


After  salutation, — 

"  You  are  well  off,  Mr  Stoddart,"  I  said,  "  to  have 
two  such  nurses." 

"  They  are  very  kind,"  sighed  the  patient 

"  You  would  recommend  Mrs  Pearson  and  Mother 
Goose  instead,  would  you  not,  Mr  Walton?"  said  Judy, 
her  gray  eyes  sparkling  with  fun. 

"  Judy,  be  quiet,"  said  the  invalid,  languidly  and  yet 
sharply. 

Judy  reddened  and  was  silent. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  unwell,"  I  said. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  very  ill,"  he  returned. 

Aunt  and  niece  rose  and  left  the  room  quietly. 

*'  Do  you  suffer  much,  Mr  Stoddart  1" 

*'  Much  weariness,  worse  than  pain.  I  could  welcome 
death." 

"  I  do  not  think,  from  what  Dr  Duncan  says  of  you, 
that  there  is  reason  to  apprehend  more  than  a  lingering 
illness,"  I  said — to  try  him,  I  confess. 

"  I  hope  not  indeed,"  he  exclaimed  angrily,  sitting 
up  in  his  chair.  *'  What  right  has  Dr  Duncan  to  talk 
of  me  so  V 

"  To  a  friend,  you  know,"  I  returned,  apologetically, 
"  who  is  much  interested  in  your  welfare." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  So  is  the  doctor.  A  sick  man 
belongs  to  you  both  by  prescription." 

"  For  my  part  I  would  rather  talk  about  religion  to 
a  whole  mun  than  a  sick  man.  A  sick  man  is  not  a 
Ki/io/e  man.  Jle  is  but  part  of  a  man,  as  it  were,  for 
(he  time,  and  it  is  not  so  easy  to  tell  wliat  he  can  take." 


3^2  AKNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"Thank  you.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  my  new 
position  in  the  social  scale.  Of  the  tailor  species,  I 
suppose." 

I  could  not  help  wishing  he  were  as  far  up  as  any 
man  that  does  such  needful  honest  work. 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  meant  only  a 
glance  at  the  peculiar  relation  of  the  words  whole  and 
hcair 

"  I  do  not  find  etymology  interesting  at  present." 

"  Not  seated  in  such  a  library  as  this?" 

"No;  I  am  ill." 

Satisfied  that,  ill  as  he  was,  he  might  be  better  if  he 
would,  I  resolved  to  make  another  trial 

Do  you  remember  how  Ligarius,  in  Julius  Ccesar, 
discards  his  sickness  1 — 

"  '  I  am  not  sick,  if  Brutus  have  in  hand 
Any  exploit  worthy  the  name  of  honour.' " 

"  I  want  to  be  well  because  I  don't  like  to  be  ill. 
But  what  there  is  in  this  foggy,  swampy  world  worth 
being  well  for,  I  'm  sure  I  haven't  found  out  yet." 

"  If  you  have  not,  it  must  be  because  you  have  never 
tried  to  find  out.  But  I'm  not  going  to  attack  you 
when  you  are  not  able  to  defend  yourself  We  shall 
find  a  better  time  for  that.  But  can't  I  do  something 
for  youl  Would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you  for  half 
an  hour?" 

"  No,  thank  ypu.  The  girls  tire  me  out  with  reading 
to  me.     I  hate  the  very  sound  of  their  voices," 

"  I  have  got  to-day's  Times  in  my  pocket.'' 

*f  I  've  heard  all  the  news  already.'* 


THE    INVALID.  363 


"  Then  I  think  I  shall  only  bore  you  if  I  stay." 

He  made  me  no  answer.  I  rose.  He  just  let  me 
take  his  hand,  and  returned  my  good  morning  as  if 
there  was  nothing  good  in  the  world,  least  of  all  this 
same  morning. 

I  found  the  ladies  in  the  outer  room.  Judy  was  on 
her  knees  on  the  floor  occupied  with  a  long  row  of 
books.  How  the  books  had  got  there  I  wondered ;  but 
soon  learned  the  secret  which  I  had  in  vain  asked  of 
the  butler  on  my  first  visit — namely,  how  Mr  Stoddart 
reached  the  volumes  arranged  immediately  under  the 
ceiling,  in  shelves,  as  my  reader  may  remember,  that 
looked  like  beams  radiating  from  the  centre.  For  Judy 
rose  from  the  floor,  and  proceeded  to  put  in  motion  a 
mechanical  arrangement  concealed  in  one  of  the  divi- 
sions of  the  book-shelves  along  the  wall ;  and  I  now 
saw  that  there  were  strong  cords  reaching  from  the 
ceiling,  and  attached  to  the  shelf  or  rather  long  box 
sideways  open  which  contained  the  books. 

"  Do  take  care,  Judy,"  said  Ethelwyn.  "  You  know 
it  is  very  venturous  of  you  to  let  that  shelf  down,  when 
uncle  is  as  jealous  of  his  books  as  a  hen  of  her  chickens. 
I  oughtn't  to  have  let  you  touch  the  cords." 

"  You  couldn't  help  it,  auntie,  dear ;  for  I  had  the 
shelf  half-way  down  before  you  saw  me,"  returned  Judy, 
proceeding  to  raise  the  books  to  their  usual  position 
under  the  ceiling. 

But  in  'another  moment,  either  from  Judy's  awkward- 
ness, or  from  the  gradual  decay  and  final  fracture  of 
some  cord,  down  came  the  whole  shelf  with  a  thunder- 


364  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

ing  noise,  and  the  books  were  scattered  hither  and  thither 
in  confusion  about  the  floor.  Ethelwyn  was  gazing  in 
dismay,  and  Judy  had  built  up  her  face  into  a  defiant 
look,  when  the  door  of  the  inner  room  opened  and  Mr 
Stoddart  appeared.  His  brow  was  already  flushed ;  but 
when  he  saw  the  condition  of  his  idols,  (for  the  lust  of 
the  eye  had  its  full  share  in  his  regard  for  his  books,)  he 
broke  out  in  a  passion  to  which  he  could  not  have  given 
way  but  for  the  weak  state  of  his  health. 

"  How  dare  you*?"  he  said,  with  terrible  emphasis  on 
the  word  dare.  "  Judy,  I  beg  you  will  not  again  show 
yourself  in  my  apartment  till  I  send  for  you." 

*'  And  then,"  said  Judy,  leaving  the  room,  "  I  am  not 
in  the  least  hkely  to  be  otherwise  engaged." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  uncle,"  began  Miss  Oldcastle. 

But  Mr  Stoddart  had  already  retreated  and  banged 
the  door  behind  him.  So  Miss  Oldcastle  and  I  were 
left  standing  together  amid  the  ruins. 

She  glanced  at  me  with  a  distressed  look.  I  smiled. 
She  smiled  in  return. 

"  I  assure  you,"  she  said,  "  uncle  is  not  a  bit  like 
himself." 

"  And  I  fear  in  trying  to  rouse  him,  I  have  done  him 
no  good, — only  made  him  more  irritable,"  I  said.  "  But 
he  will  be  sorry  when  he  comes  to  himself,  and  so  we 
must  take  the  reversion  of  his  repentance  now,  and  think 
nothing  more  of  the  matter  than  if  he  had  already  said 
he  was  sorry.  Besides,  when  books  are  in  the  case,  I, 
for  one,  must  not  be  too  hard  upon  my  unfortunate 
neighbour." 


THE    INVALID.  36$ 


"  Thank  you,  Mr  Walton.  I  am  so  much  obliged  to 
j'ou  for  taking  my  uncle's  part.  He  has  been  very  good 
to  me ;  and  that  dear  Judy  is  provoking  sometimes.  T 
am  afraid  I  help  to  spoil  her;  but  you  would  hardly 
believe  how  good  she  really  is,  and  what  a  comfort  she 
is  to  me — with  all  her  waywardness." 

"  I  think  I  understand  Judy,"  I  repHed ;  "  and  I  shall 
be  more  mistaken  than  I  am  willing  to  confess  I  have 
ever  been  before,  if  she  does  not  turn  out  a  very  fine 
woman.  The  marvel  to  me  is  that  with  all  the  various 
influences  amongst  which  she  is  placed  here,  she  is  not 
really,  not  seriously,  spoiled  after  all.  I  assure  you  I 
have  the  greatest  regard  for,  as  well  as  confidence  in, 
my  friend  Judy." 

Ethelwyn — Miss  Oldcastle,  I  should  say — gave  me 
such  a  pleased  look  that  I  was  well  recompensed — if 
justice  should  ever  talk  of  recompense — for  my  defence 
of  her  niece. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  1"  she  said ;  "  for  I  fear  our 
talk  may  continue  to  annoy  Mr  Stoddart.  His  hearing 
is  acute  at  all  times,  and  has  been  excessively  so  since 
his  illness." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  I  returned,  and  followed  her 
from  the  room. 

"  Are  you  still  as  fond  of  the  old  quarry  as  you  used 
to  be,  Miss  Oldcastle  V  I  said,  as  we  caught  a  glimpse 
of  it  from  the  window  of  a  long  passage  we  were  going 
dirough. 

"  I  think  I  am.  I  go  there  most  days.  I  have  not 
been  to-day,  though.     Would  you  like  to  go  down  i " 


366  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Very  much,"  I  said 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot,  though.  You  must  not  go ;  it  is  not 
a  fit  place  for  an  invahd." 

"  I  cannot  call  myself  an  invalid  now.'* 

"  Your  face,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  contradicts  yorr 
words." 

And  she  looked  so  kindly  at  me,  that  I  almost  broke 
out  into  thanks  for  the  mere  look. 

"And  indeed,"  she  went  on,  "it  is  too  damp  down 
there,  not  to  speak  of  the  stairs." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  little  room  in  which 
I  was  received  the  first  time  I  visited  the  Hall.  There 
we  found  Judy. 

"  If  you  are  not  too  tired  already,  I  should  like  to 
show  you  my  little  study.  It  has,  I  think,  a  better  view 
than  any  other  room  in  the  house,"  said  Miss  Oldcastle. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  I  replied. 

"  Come,  Judy,"  said  her  aunt 

"  You  don't  want  me,  I  am  sure,  auntie.** 

"  I  do,  Judy,  really.  You  mustn't  be  cross  to  us  be- 
cause uncle  has  been  cross  to  you.  Uncle  is  not  well, 
you  know,  and  isn't  a  bit  like  himself;  and  you  know 
you  should  not  have  meddled  with  his  machinery." 

And  Miss  Oldcastle  put  her  arm  round  Judy,  and 
kissed  her.  Whereupon  Judy  jumped  from  her  seat, 
threw  her  book  down,  and  ran  to  one  of  the  several 
doors  that  opened  from  the  room.  This  disclosed  a 
little  staircase,  almost  like  a  ladder,  only  that  it  wound 
about,  up  which  we  climbed,  and  reached  a  charm- 
ing little  room,  whose  window  looked  down  upon  the 


THE    INVALID.  3^7 


Bishop's  Basin,  glimmering  slaty  through  the  tops  of  the 
trees  between.  It  was  panelled  in  small  panels  of  dark 
oak,  like  the  room  below,  but  with  more  of  carving. 
Consequently  it  was  sombre,  and  its  sombreness  was 
unrelieved  by  any  mirror.  I  gazed  about  me  with  a 
kind  of  awe.  I  would  gladly  have  carried  away  the  re- 
membrance of  everything  and  its  shadow. — ^Just  opposite 
the  window  was  a  small  space  of  brightness  formed  by 
the  backs  of  nicely-bound  books.  Seeing  that  these 
attracted  my  eye — 

"  Those  are  almost  all  gifts  from  my  uncle,"  said  Miss 
Oldcastle.  "  He  is  really  very  kind,  and  you  will  not 
think  of  him  as  you  have  seen  him  to-day  1 " 

"  Indeed  I  will  not,"  I  replied. 

My  eye  fell  upon  a  small  pianoforte. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  said  Miss  Oldcastle. — "  You  have 
been  very  ill,  and  I  could  do  nothing  for  you  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  me." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  had  wanted  to  say  this. 

"  I  only  wish  I  had  a  chance  of  doing  anything  for 
you,"  I  said,  as  I  took  a  chair  in  the  window.  "  But  if 
I  had  done  all  I  ever  could  hope  to  do,  you  have  repaid 
me  long  ago,  I  think." 

"  How  ?  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  Mr  Walton. 
I  have  never  done  you  the  least  service." 

"  Tell  me  first,  did  you  play  the  organ  in  church  that 
afternoon  when — after — before  I  was  taken  ill — I  mean 
the  same  day  you  had — a  friend  with  you  in  the  pew  in 
the  morning  ] " 

I  daresay  my  voice  was  as  irregular  as  my  construe* 


36d  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

tion.  I  ventured  just  one  glance.  Her  face  was  flushed. 
But  she  answered  me  at  once. 

"  I  did." 

"  Then  I  am  in  your  debt  more  than  you  know  or  1 
can  tell  you." 

"  Why,  if  that  is  all,  I  have  played  the  organ  every 
Sunday  since  uncle  was  taken  ill,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  I  know  that  now.  And  I  am  very  glad  I  did  not 
know  it  till  I  was  better  able  to  bear  the  disappoint- 
ment. But  it  is  only  for  what  I  heard  that  I  mean  now 
to  acknowledge  my  obligation.  Tell  me,  Miss  Oldcastle, 
/—what  is  the  most  precious  gift  one  person  can  give 
another  1 " 

She  hesitated;  and  I,  fearing  to  embarrass  her,  an- 
swered for  her. 

"  It  must  be  something  imperishable, — s.imethirg 
which  in  its  own  nature  is.  If  instead  of  a  gem,  or  even 
of  a  flower,  we  could  cast  the  gift  of  a  lovely  thought 
into  the  heart  of  a  friend,  that  would  be  giving,  as  the 
angels,  I  suppose,  must  give.  But  you  did  more  and 
better  for  me  than  that.  I  had  been  troubled  all  the 
morning ;  and  you  made  me  know  that  my  Redeemei 
liveth.  I  did  not  know  you  were  playing,  mind,  though 
I  felt  a  difference.  You  gave  me  more  trust  in  God ; 
and  what  other  gift  so  great  could  one  give  ?  I  think 
that  last  impression,  just  as  I  was  taken  ill,  must  have 
helped  me  through  my  illness.  Often  when  I  was  most 
oppressed,  *  /  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth '  would  rise 
up  in  the  troubled  air  of  my  mind,  and  sung  by  a  voice 


THE    INVALID.  369 


which,  though  I  never  heard  you  sing,  I  never  questioned 
to  be  yours." 

She  turned  her  face  towards  me  :  those  sea-blue  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

"  I  was  troubled  myself,"  she  said,  with  a  faltering 
voice,  "  when  I  sang — I  mean  played — that.  I  am  so 
glad  it  did  somebody  good !  I  fear  it  did  not  do  me 
much. — I  will  sing  it  to  you  now,  if  you  like." 

And  she  rose  to  get  the  music.  But  that  instant 
Judy,  who,  I  then  found,  had  left  the  room,  bounded 
into  it,  with  the  exclamation, — 

"  Auntie,  auntie  !  here 's  grannie  1 " 

Miss  Oldcastle  turned  pale.  I  confess  I  felt  embar- 
rassed, as  if  I  had  been  caught  in  something  underhand. 

"  Is  she  come  in  1 "  asked  Miss  Oldcastle,  trying  to 
speak  with  indifference. 

"  She  is  just  at  the  door, — must  be  getting  out  of  the 
fly  now.     What  s/ia//  we  do  1 " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Judy  1 "  said  her  aunt. 

"  Well  you  know,  auntie,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  grannie 
will  look  as  black  as  a  thunder-cloud  to  find  Mr  Walton 
here ;  and  if  she  doesn't  speak  as  loud,  it  will  only  be 
because  she  can't.  /  don't  care  for  myself,  but  you 
know  on  whose  head  the  storm  will  fall.  Do,  dear  Mr 
Walton,  come  down  the  back-stair.  Then  she  won't  be 
a  bit  the  wiser.     I  '11  manage  it  all." 

Here  was  a  dilemma  for  me ;  either  to  bring  suffering 
on  her,  to  save  whom  I  would  have  borne  any  pain,  or 
to  creep  out  of  the  house  as  if  I  were  and  ought  to  be 

2  A 


370  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

ashamed  of  myself.  I  believe  that  had  I  been  in  any 
other  relation  to  my  fellows,  I  would  have  resolved  at 
once  to  lay  myself  open  to  the  peculiarly  unpleasant  re- 
proach of  sneaking  out  of  the  house,  rather  than  that 
she  should  innocently  suffer  for  my  being  innocently 
there.  But  I  was  a  clergyman ;  and  I  felt,  more  than  1 
had  ever  felt  before,  that  therefore  I  could  not  risk  ever 
the  appearance  of  what  was  mean.  Miss  Oldcastle, 
however,  did  not  leave  it  to  me  to  settle  the  matter.  All 
that  I  have  just  written  had  but  flashed  through  my 
mind  when  she  said  : — 

"Judy,  for  shame  to  propose  such  a  thing  to  Mr 
Walton  !  I  am  very  sorry  that  he  may  chance  to  have 
an  unpleasant  meeting  with  mamma ;  but  we  can't  help 
it    Come,  Judy,  we  will  show  Mr  Walton  out  together.'' 

"  It  wasn't  for  Mr  Walton's  sake,"  returned  Judy, 
pouting.  "  You  are  very  troublesome,  auntie  dear.  Mr 
Walton,  she  is  so  hard  to  take  care  of!  and  she's  worse 
since  you  came.  I  shall  have  to  give  her  up  some  day. 
Do  be  generous,  Mr  Walton,  and  take  my  side — that  is, 
auntie's." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Judy,  I  must  thank  your  aunt  for  taking 
the  part  of  my  duty  against  my  inclination.  But  this 
kindness,  at  least,"  I  said  to  Miss  Oldcastle,  "  I  can 
never  hope  to  return." 

It  was  a  stupid  speech,  but  I  could  not  be  annoyed 
that  I  had  made  it 

"  All  obligations  are  not  burdens  to  be  got  rid  of,  are 
they  ? "  she  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  on  such  a  pale 
troubled  face,  that  I  was  more  moved  for  her,  deliber* 


THE    INVALID.  371 


ately  handing  her  over  to  the  torture  for  the  truth's  sake, 
tlian  I  care  definitely  to  confess. 

Thereupon,  Miss  Oldcastle  led  the  way  down  the 
stairs,  I  followed,  and  Judy  brought  up  the  rear.  The 
affair  was  not  so  bad  as  it  might  have  been,  inasmuch 
as,  meeting  the  mistress  of  the  house  in  no  penetralia  of 
the  same,  I  insisted  on  going  out  alone,  and  met  Mrs 
Oldcastle  in  the  hall  only.  She  held  out  no  hand  to 
greet  me.  I  bowed,  and  said  I  was  sorry  to  find  Mr 
Stoddart  so  far  from  well. 

"  I  fear  he  is  far  from  well,"  she  returned ;  "  certainly 
in  my  opinion  too  ill  to  receive  visitors." 

So  saying,  she  bowed  and  passed  on.  I  turned  and 
walked  out,  not  ill-pleased,  as  my  readers  will  believe, 
with  my  visit. 

From  that  day  I  recovered  rapidly,  and  the  next  Sun- 
day had  the  pleasure  of  preaching  to  my  flock;  Mr 
Aikin,  the  gentleman  already  mentioned  as  doing  duty 
for  me,  reading  prayers.  I  took  for  my  subject  one  of 
our  Lord's  miracles  of  healing,  I  forget  which  now,  and 
tried  to  show  my  people  that  all  healing  and  all  kinds  of 
healing  come  as  certainly  and  only  from  His  hand  as 
those  instances  in  which  He  put  forth  His  bodily  hand 
and  touched  the  diseased,  and  told  them  to  be  whole. 

And  as  they  left  the  church  the  organ  played,  "  Com- 
fort ye,  comfort  ye,  my  people,  saith  your  God." 

I  tried  hard  to  prevent  my  new  feelings  from  so  filling 
my  mind  as  to  make  me  fail  of  my  duty  towards  my 
flock.  I  said  to  myself,  "  Let  me  be  the  more  gentle, 
the  more  honourable,  the  more  tender,  towards  these  mj 


372  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

brothers  and  sisters,  forasmuch  as  they  are  her  brother? 
and  sisters  too."  I  wanted  to  do  my  work  the  bettei 
that  I  loved  her. 

Thus  week  after  week  passed,  with  little  that  I  can 
remember  worthy  of  record.  I  seldom  saw  Miss  Old- 
castle,  and  during  this  period  never  alone.  True,  she 
played  the  organ  still,  for  Mr  Stoddart  continued  too 
unwell  to  resume  his  ministry  of  sound,  but  I  never 
made  any  attempt  to  see  her  as  she  came  to  or  went 
from  the  organ-loft.  I  felt  that  I  ought  not,  or  at  least 
that  it  was  better  not,  lest  an  interview  should  trouble 
my  mind,  and  so  interfere  with  my  work,  which,  if  my 
calling  meant  anything  real,  was  a  consideration  of  vital 
import.  But  one  thing  I  could  not  help  noting — that 
she  seemed,  by  some  intuition,  to  know  the  music  I 
liked  best ;  and  great  help  she  often  gave  me  by  so  up- 
lifting my  heart  upon  the  billows  of  the  organ-harmony, 
that  my  thinking  became  free  and  harmonious,  and  I 
spoke,  as  far  as  my  own  feeling  was  concerned,  like  one 
upheld  on  the  unseen  wings  of  ministering  cherubim. 
How  it  might  be  to  those  who  heard  me,  or  what  the 
value  of  the  utterance  in  itself  might  be,  I  cannot  tell. 
I  only  speak  of  my  own  feelings,  I  say. 

Does  my  reader  wonder  why  I  did  not  yet  make  any 
further  attempt  to  gain  favour  in  the  lady's  eyes?  He 
will  see,  if  he  will  think  for  a  moment.  First  of  all,  I 
could  not  venture  until  she  had  seen  more  of  me  ;  and 
how  to  enjoy  more  of  her  society  while  her  mother  was 
so  unfriendly,  both  from  instinctive  dislike  to  me,  and 
because  of  the  offenc;  I  had  given  her  more  than  oncCi 


THE    INVALID.  373 


I  did  not  know ;  for  I  feared  that  to  call  oftener  might 
only  occasion  measures  upon  her  part  to  prevent  me 
from  seeing  her  daughter  at  all;  and  I  could  not  tell 
how  far  such  measures  might  expedite  the  event  I  most 
dreaded,  or  add  to  the  discomfort  to  which  Miss  Old- 
castle  was  already  so  much  exposed.  Meantime  I 
heard  nothing  of  Captain  Everard ;  and  the  comfort 
that  flowed  from  such  a  negative  source  was  yet  of  a 
very  positive  character.  At  the  same  time — will  my 
reader  understand  me  ■? — I  was  in  some  measure  deterred 
from  making  further  advances  by  the  doubt  whether  her 
favour  for  Captain  Everard  might  not  be  greater  than 
Judy  had  represented  it.  For  I  had  always  shrunk,  I 
can  hardly  say  with  invincible  dislike,  for  I  had  never 
tried  to  conquer  it,  from  rivalry  of  every  kind  :  it  was, 
somehow,  contrary  to  my  nature.  Besides,  Miss  Old- 
castle  was  likely  to  be  rich  some  day — apparently  had 
money  of  her  own  even  now;  and  was  it  a  weakness  ? 
was  it  not  a  weakness  1 — I  cannot  tell — I  writhed  at 
the  thought  of  being  supposed  to  marry  for  money,  and 
being  made  the  object  of  such  remarks  as,  "  Ah !  you 
see  !  That 's  the  way  with  the  clergy  !  They  talk  about 
poverty  and  faith,  pretending  to  despise  riches  and  to 
trust  in  God;  but  just  put  money  in  their  way,  and 
what  chance  will  a  poor  girl  have  beside  a  rich  one  ! 
It 's  all  very  well  in  the  pulpit.  It 's  their  business  to 
talk  so.  But  does  one  of  them  believe  what  he  saysl 
or,  at  least,  act  upon  it  ?"  I  think  I  may  be  a  liitle 
excused  for  the  sense  of  creeping  cold  that  passed  over 
me  at  the  thought  of  such  remarks  as  these,  accom- 


374  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

panied  by  compressed  lips  and  down-drawn  corners  of 
the  mouth,  and  reiterated  nods  of  the  head  of  knowing- 
ness.  But  I  mention  this  only  as  a  repressing  influence, 
to  which  I  certainly  should  not  have  been  such  a  fool 
as  to  yield,  had  I  seen  the  way  ot'iCrwise  clear.  For  a 
man  by  showing  how  to  use  money,  or  rather  simply  by 
using  money  aright,  may  do  more  good  than  by  refusing 
to  possess  it,  if  it  comes  to  him  in  an  entirely  honour- 
able way,  that  is,  in  such  a  case  as  mine,  merely  as  an 
accident  of  his  history.  But  I  was  glad  to  feel  pretty 
sure  that  if  I  should  be  so  blessed  as  to  marry  Miss 
Oldcastle — which  at  the  time  whereof  I  now  write, 
seemed  far  too  gorgeous  a  castle  in  the  clouds  ever  to 
descend  to  the  earth  for  me  to  enter  it — the  poor  of  my 
own  people  would  be  those  most  likely  to  understand 
my  position  and  feelings,  and  least  likely  to  impute  to 
me  worldly  motives,  as  paltry  as  they  are  vulgar,  and 
altogether  unworthy  of  a  true  man. 

So  the  time  went  on.  I  called  once  or  twice  on  Mr 
Stoddart,  and  found  him,  as  I  thought,  better.  But  he 
would  not  allow  that  he  was.  Dr  Duncan  said  he  was 
better,  and  would  be  better  still,  if  he  would  only 
believe  it  and  exert  himself. 

He  continued  in  the  same  strangely  irritable  humour. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MOOD  AND  WILL. 

INTER  came  apace.  When  we  look  towards 
winter  from  the  last  borders  of  autumn,  it 
seems  as  if  we  could  not  encounter  it,  and 
as  if  it  never  would  go  over.  So  does 
threatened  trouble  of  any  kind  seem  to  us  as  we  look 
forward  upon  its  miry  ways  firom  the  last  borders  of 
the  pleasant  greensward  on  which  we  have  hitherto  been 
walking.  But  not  only  do  both  run  their  course,  but 
each  has  its  own  alleviations,  its  own  pleasures  ;  and 
very  marvellously  does  the  healthy  mind  tit  itself  to  the 
new  circumstances;  while  to  those  who 'will  bravely 
take  up  their  burden  and  bear  it,  asking  no  more 
questions  than  just,  "Is  this  my  burden?"  a  thousand 
ministrations  of  nature  and  life  will  come  with  gentle 
comfortings.  Across  a  dark  verdureless  field  will  blow 
a  wind  through '  the  heart  of  the  winter  which  will  wake 
in  the  patient  mind  not  a  memory  merely,  but  a  pro- 


376  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

phecy  of  the  spring,  with  a  glimmer  of  crocus,  or  snow- 
drop, or  primrose ;  and  across  the  waste  of  tired  en- 
deavour .will  a  gentle  hope,  coming  he  knows  not 
whence,  breathe  springlike  upon  the  heart  of  the  man 
around  whom  life  looks  desolate  and  dreary.  Well  do 
I  remember  a  friend  of  mine  telling  me  once — he  was 
then  a  labourer  in  the  field  of  literature,  who  had  not 
yet  begun  to  earn  his  penny  a  day,  though  he  worked 
hard — telling  me  how  once,  when  a  hope  that  had  kept 
him  active  for  months  was  suddenly  quenched — a  book 
refused  on  which  he  had  spent  a  passion  of  labour — 
the  weight  of  money  that  must  be  paid  and  could  not 
be  had,  pressing  him  down  like  the  coffin-lid  that  had 
lately  covered  the  only  friend  to  whom  he  could  have 
applied  confidently  for  aid — telling  me,  I  say,  how  he 
stood  at  the  comer  of  a  London  street,  with  the  rain 
dripping  black  from  the  brim  of  his  hat,  the  dreariest  of 
atmospheres  about  him  in  the  closing  afternoon  of  the 
City,  when  the  rich  men  were  going  home,  and  the 
poor  men  who  worked  for  them  were  longing  to  follow ; 
and  how  across  this  waste  came  energy  and  hope  into 
his  bosom,  swelling  thenceforth  with  courage  to  fight, 
and  yield  no  ear  to  suggested  failure.  And  the  story 
would  not  be  complete — though  it  is  for  the  fact  of  the 
arrival  of  unexpected  and  apparently  unfounded  hope 
that  I  tell  it — if  I  did  not  add,  that,  in  the  morning, 
his  wife  gave  him  a  letter  which  their  common  trouble 
of  yesterday  had  made  her  forget,  and  which  had  lain 
with  its  black  border  all  night  in  the  darkness  un- 
opened, waiting  to  tell  him  how  the  vanished  friend  had 


MOOD   AND   WILL.  377 


not  forgotten  him  on  her  death-bed,  but  had  left  him 
enough  to  take  him  out  of  all  those  difficulties,  and  give 
him  strength  and  time  to  do  far  better  work  than  the 
book  which  had  failed  of  birth. — Some  of  my  readers 
may  doubt  whether  I  am  more  than  "  a  wandering 
voice,"  but  whatever  I  am,  or  may  be  thought  to  be, 
my  friend's  story  is  true. 

And  all  this  has  come  out  of  the  winter  that  I,  in 
the  retrospect  of  my  history,  am  looking  forward  to. 
It  came,  with  its  fogs,  and  dripping  boughs,  and  sodden 
paths,  and  rotting  leaves,  and  rains,  and  skies  of  Aveary 
gray;  but  also  with  its  fierce  red  suns,  shining  aslant 
upon  sheets  of  manna-like  hoarfrost,  and  delicate  ice- 
films  over  prisoned  waters,  and  those  white  falling 
chaoses  of  perfect  forms — called  snow-storms — those 
confusions  confounded  of  infinite  symmetries. 

And  when  the  hard  frost  came,  it  brought  a  friend  to 
my  door.     It  was  Mr  Stoddart. 

He  entered  my  room  with  something  of  the  counten- 
ance Naaman  must  have  borne,  after  his  flesh  had  come 
again  like  unto  the  flesh  of  a  httle  child.  He  did  not 
look  ashamed,  but  his  pale  face  looked  humble  and  dis- 
tressed. Its  somewhat  self-satisfied  placidity  had  van- 
ished, and  instead  of  the  diffiised  geniality  which  was  its 
usual  expression,  it  now  showed  traces  of  feeling  as  well 
as  plain  signs  of  suffering.  I  gave  him  as  warm  a  wel- 
come as  I  could,  and  having  seated  him  comfortably  by 
the  fire,  and  found  that  he  would  take  no  refreshment, 
began  to  chat  about  the  day's  news,  for  I  had  just  been 
reading  the  newspaper.     But  he  showed  no  interest  be- 


378  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


yond  what  the  merest  politeness  required.  I  would  try 
something  else. 

*'  The  cold  weather,  which  makes  so  many  invalids 
creep  into  bed,  seems  to  have  brought  you  out  into  the 
air,  Mr  Stoddart,"  I  said. 

"It  has  revived  me,  certainly." 

"  Indeed,  one  must  believe  that  winter  and  cold  are 
as  beneficent,  though  not  so  genial,  as  summer  and  its 
warmth.  Winter  kills  many  a  disease  and  many  a  nox- 
ious influence.  And  what  is  it  to  have  the  fresh  green 
leaves  of  spring  instead  of  the  everlasting  brown  of  some 
countries  which  have  no  winter ! " 

I  talked  thus,  hoping  to  rouse  him  to  conversation, 
and  I  was  successful 

"  I  feel  just  as  if  I  were  coming  out  of  a  winter. 
Don't  you  think  illness  is  a  kind  of  human  winter?" 

"  Certainly — more  or  less  stormy.  With  some  a  win- 
ter of  snow  and  hail  and  piercing  winds ;  with  others  of 
black  frosts  and  creeping  fogs,  with  now  and  then  a 
glimmer  of  the  sun." 

"  The  last  is  more  like  mine.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
in  a  wet  hole  in  the  earth." 

"  And  many  a  man,"  I  went  on,  "  the  foliage  of  whose 
character  had  been  turning  brown  and  seared  and  dry, 
rattling  rather  than  rustling  in  the  faint  hot  wind  of  even 
fortr.nes,  has  come  out  of  the  winter  of  a  weary  illness 
with  the  fresh  dehcate  buds  of  a  new  life  bursting  from 
the  sun-dried  bark." 

"  I  wish  it  would  be  so  with  me.  I  know  you  mean 
me.     But  I  don't  feel  my  green  leaves  coming." 


MOOD    AND    WILL.  .^79 


"  Facts  are  not  always  indicated  by  feelings." 

"  Indeed,  I  hope  not ;  nor  yet  feelings  indicated  by 
facts." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"Well,  Mr  Walton,  I  will  explain  myself.  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  how  sorry  and  ashamed  I  am  that  I 
behaved  so  badly  to  you  every  time  you  came  to  see 
me." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  ! "  I  said.  *'  It  was  your  illness,  not 
you." 

"  At  least,  my  dear  sir,  the  facts  of  my  behaviour  did 
not  really  represent  my  feelings  towards  you." 

"  I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do.  Don't  say  another 
word  about  it.  You  had  the  best  excuse  for  being  cross; 
I  should  have  had  none  for  being  offended." 

"  It  was  only  the  outside  of  me." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  acknowledge  it  heartily." 

"  But  that  does  not  settle  the  matter  between  me  and 
myself,  Mr  Walton;  although,  by  your  goodness,  it 
settles  it  between  me  and  you.  It  is  humiliating  to 
think  that  illness  should  so  completely  *  overcrow '  me, 
that  I  am  no  more  myself — lose  my  hold,  in  fact,  of 
what  I  call  me — so  that  I  am  almost  driven  to  doubt 
my  personal  identity." 

"  You  are  fond  of  theories,  Mr  Stoddart — perhaps  a 
little  too  much  so." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Will  you  listen  to  one  of  mine  % " 

«  With  pleasure." 

"  It  seems  to  me  sometimes — I  know  it  is  a  partial 


3^0  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

representation — as  if  life  were  a  conflict  between  the 
inner  force  of  the  spirit,  which  hes  in  its  faith  in  the 
unseen — and  the  outer  force  of  the  world,  which  lies  in 
the  pressure  of  everything  it  has  to  show  us.  The  mate- 
rial, operating  upon  our  senses,  is  always  asserting  its 
existence ;  and  if  our  inner  life  is  not  equally  vigorous, 
we  shall  be  moved,  urged,  what  is  called  actuated,  from 
without,  whereas  all  our  activity  ought  to  be  from  within. 
But  sickness  not  only  overwhelms  the  mind,  but,  vitiat- 
ing all  the  channels  of  the  senses,  causes  them  to  repre- 
sent things  as  they  are  not,  of  which  misrepresentations 
the  presence,  persistency,  and  iteration  seduce  the  man 
to  act  from  false  suggestions  instead  of  from  what  he 
knows  and  believes." 

"  Well,  I  understand  all  that  But  what  use  am  I  to 
make  of  your  theory  1 " 

"  I  am  delighted,  Mr  Stoddart,  to  hear  you  put  the 
question.  That  is  always  the  point. — The  inward  holy 
garrison,  that  of  faith,  which  holds  by  the  truth,  by 
sacred  facts,  and  not  by  appearances,  must  be  strength- 
ened and  nourished  and  upheld,  and  so  enabled  to 
resist  the  onset  of  the  powers  without.  A  friend's  re- 
monstrance may  appear  an  unkindness — a  friend's  jest 
an  unfeelingness — a  friend's  visit  an  intrusion ;  nay,  to 
come  to  higher  things,  during  a  mere  headache  it  will 
appear  as  if  there  was  no  truth  in  the  world,  no  reality 
but  that  of  pain  anywhere,  and  nothing  to  be  desired 
but  deliverance  from  it.  But  all  such  impressions  caused 
from  without — for,  remember,  the  body  and  its  inner- 
most experiences  are  ovXy  outside  of  the  man — have  to  ba 


MOOD    AND   WILL,  38I 


met  by  the  inner  confidence  of  the  spirit,  resting  in  God 
and  resisting  every  impulse  to  act  according  to  that 
which  appears  to  it  instead  of  that  which  //  believes. 
Hence,  Faith  is  thus  allegorically  represented  :  but  I 
had  better  give  you  Spenser's  description  of  her — Here 
is  the  '  Fairy  Queen  * : — 

•  She  was  arrayed  all  in  lily  white, 
And  in  her  right  hand  bore  a  cup  of  gold, 
With  wine  and  water  filled  up  to  the  height, 
In  which  a  serpent  did  himself  enfold, 
That  horror  made  to  all  that  did  behold  ; 
But  she  no  whit  did  change  her  constant  mood.' 

This  serpent  stands  for  the  dire  perplexity  of  things 
about  us,  at  which  yet  Faith  will  not  blench,  acting 
according  to  what  she  believes,  and  not  what  shows 
itself  to  her  by  impression  and  appearance." 

"  I  admit  all  that  you  say,"  returned  Mr  Stoddart. 
*'  But  still  the  practical  conclusion — which  I  understand 
to  be,  that  the  inward  garrison  must  be  fortified — is 
considerably  incomplete  unless  we  buttress  it  with  the 
final  How.     How  is  it  to  be  fortified  %     For, 

•  '  I  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  as  you, 

But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so.' 

(You  see  I  read  Shakespeare  as  well  as  you,  Mr  Walton.) 
I  daresay,  from  a  certain  inclination  to  take  the  opposite 
side,  and  a  certain  dislike  to  the  dogmatism  of  the 
clergy — I  sjoeak  generally — I  may  have  appeared  to  you 
indifferent,  but  I  assure  you  that  I  have  laboured  much 
to  withdraw  my  mind  from  the  influence  of  money,  and 
ambition,  and  pleasure,  and  to  turn  it  to  the  contempla- 


382  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

tion  of  spiritual  things.  Yet  on  the  first  attack  of  a 
depressing  illness  I  cease  to  be  a  gentleman,  I  am  rude 
to  ladies  who  do  their  best  and  kindest  to  serve  me,  and 
I  talk  to  the  friend  who  comes  to  cheer  and  comfort  me 
as  if  he  were  an  idle  vagrant  who  wanted  to  sell  me  a 
worthless  book  with  the  recommendation  of  the  pretence 
that  he  wrote  it  himself  Now  that  I  am  in  my  right 
mind,  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  ashamed  that  it  should 
be  possible  for  me  to  behave  so,  and  humiliated  yet 
besides  that  I  have  no  ground  of  assurance  that,  should 
my  illness  return  to-morrow,  I  should  not  behave  in  the 
same  manner  the  day  after.  I  want  to  be  always  in  my 
right  mind.  When  I  am  not,  I  know  I  am  not,  and  yet 
yield  to  the  appearance  of  being." 

"  I  understand  perfectly  what  you  mean,  for  I  fancy 
I  know  a  little  more  of  illness  than  you  do.  Shall  I 
tell  you  where  I  think  the  fault  of  your  self-training 
liesl" 

"That  is  just  what  I  want.  The  things  which  it 
pleased  me  to  contemplate  when  I  was  well,  gave  me 
no  pleasure  when  I  was  ill.    Nothing  seemed  the  same." 

"  If  we  were  always  in  a  right  mood,  there  would  be 
no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the  will  We  should  go  by 
our  mood  and  inclination  only.  But  that  is  by  the  by. 
— Where  you  have  been  wrong  is — that  you  have  sought 
to  influence  your  feelings  only  by  thought  and  argument 
with  yourself — and  not  also  by  contact  with  your  fellows. 
Besides  the  ladies  of  whom  you  have  spoken,  I  think 
you  have  hardly  a  friend  in  this  neighbourhood  but 
myself     One  friend  cannot  afford  you  half  experience 


MOOD   AND   WILL.  383 


enough  to  teach  you  the  relations  of  life  and  of  human 
needs.  At  best,  under  such  circumstances,  you  can  only 
have  right  theories  :  practice  for  realising  them  in  your 
self  is  nowhere.  It  is  no  more  possible  for  a  man  in 
the  present  day  to  retire  from  his  fellows  into  the  cave 
of  his  religion,  and  thereby  leave  the  world  of  his  own 
faults  and  follies  behind,  than  it  was  possible  for  the 
eremites  of  old  to  get  close  to  God  in  virtue  of  declining 
the  duties  which  their  very  birth  of  human  father  and 
mother  laid  upon  them.  I  do  not  deny  that  you  and 
the  eremite  may  both  come  nearer  to  God,  in  virtue  of 
whatever  is  true  in  your  desires  and  your  worship ;  '  but 
if  a  man  love  not  his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how 
can  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not  seen  % ' — which 
surely  means  to  imply  at  least  that  to  love  our  neigh- 
bour is  a  great  help  towards  loving  God.  How  this  love 
is  to  come  about  without  intercourse,  I  do  not  see.  And 
how  without  this  love  we  are  to  bear  up  from  within 
against  the  thousand  irritations  to  which,  especially  in 
sickness,  our  unavoidable  relations  with  humanity  will 
expose  us,  I  cannot  tell  either." 

"  But,"  returned  Mr  Stoddart,  "  I  had  had  a  true 
regard  for  you,  and  some  friendly  communication  with 
you.  If  human  intercourse  were  what  is  required  in  my 
case,  how  should  I  fail  just  with  respect  to  the  only  man 
with  whom  I  had  held  such  intercourse  1 " 

"  Because  the  relations  in  which  you  stood  with  me 
were  those  of  the  individual,  not  of  the  race.  You  like 
me,  because  I  am  fortunate  enough  to  please  you — to 
be  a  gentleman,  I  hope — to  be  a  man  of  some  education, 


384  ANNALS    OK    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD, 

and  capable  of  understanding,  or  at  least  docile  enough 
to  try  to  understand,  what  you  tell  me  of  your  plans  and 
pursuits.  But  you  do  not  feel  any  relation  to  me  on  the 
ground  of  my  humanity — that  God  made  me,  and  there- 
fore I  am  your  brother.  It  is  not  because  we  grow  out 
of  the  same  stem,  but  merely  because  my  leaf  is  a  little 
like  your  own  that  you  draw  to  me.  Our  Lord  took  on 
Him  the  nature  of  man  :  you  will  only  regard  your  indi- 
vidual attractions.  Disturb  your  liking  and  your  love 
vanishes." 

"  You  are  severe." 

"  1  don't  mean  really  vanishes,  but  disappears  for 
the  time.  Yet  you  will  confess  you  have  to  wait  till, 
somehow,  you  know  not  how,  it  comes  back  again — of 
itself,  as  it  were." 

"  Yes,  I  confess.     To  my  sorrow,  I  find  it  so." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr  Stoddart.  You  seem 
to  me  to  have  been  hitherto  oi^ly  a  dilettante  or  amateur 
in  spiritual  matters.  Do  not  imagine  I  mean  a  hypo- 
crite. Very  far  from  it.  The  word  amateur  itself  sug 
gests  a  real  interest,  though  it  may  be  of  a  superficial 
nature.  But  in  religion  one  must  be  all  there.  You 
stem  to  me  to  have  taken  much  interest  in  unusual 
fofms  of  theory,  and  in  mystical  speculations,  to  which 
in  themselves  I  make  no  objection.  But  to  be  conte:- 1 
with  those,  instead  of  knowing  God  himself,  or  to  sub- 
stitute a  general  amateur  friendship  towards  the  race  for 
the  love  of  your  neighbour,  is  a  mockery  which  will 
always  manifest  itself  to  an  honest  mind  like  yours  in 
such  failure  and  disappointment  in  your  own  character 


MOOr»   AND   WILL.  385 


as  you  are  now  lamenting,  if  not  indeed  in  some  mode 
far  more  alarming,  because  gross  and  terrible." 

"  Am  I  to  understand  you,  then,  that  intercourse  with 
one's  neighbo*irs  ought  to  take  the  place  of  meditation?" 

"  By  no  means  :  but  ought  to  go  side  by  side  with  it, 
if  you  would  have  at  once  a  healthy  mind  to  judge  and 
the  means  of  either  verifying  your  speculations  or  dis- 
covering their  falsehood.' 

"  But  where  am  I  to  find  such  friends  besides  yourself 
with  whom  to  hold  spiritual  communion  ? "    , 

"  It  is  the  communion  of  spiritual  deeds,  deeds  ot 
justice,  of  mercy,  of  humility — the  kind  word,  the  cup 
of  cold  water,  the  visitation  in  sickness,  the  lending  of 
money — not  spiritual  conference  or  talk,  that  I  mean  : 
the  latter  will  come  of  itself  where  it  is  natural.  You 
would  soon  find  that  it  is  not  only  to  those  whose  spiri- 
tual windows  are  of  the  same  shape  as  your  own  that 
you  are  neighbour :  there  is  one  poor  man  in  my  con- 
gregation who  knows  more — practically,  I  mean,  too — 
of  spirituality  of  mind  than  any  of  us.  Perhaps  you 
could  not  teach  him  much,  but  he  could  teach  you.  At 
all  events,  our  neighbours  are  just  those  round  about  us. 
And  the  most  ignorant  man  in  a  little  place  like  Marsh- 
mallows,  one  like  you  with  leisure  ought  to  know  and 
understand,  and  have  some  good  influence  upon :  he  is 
your  brother  whom  you  are  bound  to  care  for  and  elevate 
— J  do  not  mean  socially,  but  really,  in  himself — if  it  be 
possible.  You  ought  at  least  to  get  into  some  simple 
human  relation  with  him,  as  you  would  with  the  young- 
est and  most  ignorant  of  your  brothers  and  sisters  bom 

2  B 


386  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

of  the  same  father  and  mother;  approaching  him,  not 
with  pompous  lecturing  or  fault-finding,  still  less  with 
that  abomination  called  condescension,  but  with  the 
humble  service  of  the  elder  to  the  younger,  in  whatever 
he  may  be  helped  by  you  without  injury  to  him.  Never 
was  there  a  more  injurious  mistake  than  that  it  is  the 
business  of  the  clergy  only  to  have  the  care  of  souls." 

"  But  that  would  be  endless.  It  would  leave  me  no 
time  for  myself." 

"  Would  that  be  no  time  for  yourself  spent  in  leading 
a  noble.  Christian  life;  in  verifying  the  words  of  our 
Lord  by  doing  them;  in  building  your  house  on  the 
rock  of  action  instead  of  the  sands  of  theory ;  in  widen- 
ing your  own  being  by  entering  into  the  nature,  thoughts, 
feeUngs,  even  fancies  of  those  around  you?  In  such 
intercourse  you  would  find  health  radiating  into  your 
own  bosom;  healing  sympathies  springing  up  in  the 
most  barren  acquaintance ;  channels  opened  for  the 
in-rush  of  truth  into  your  own  mind ;  and  opportunities 
afforded  for  the  exercise  of  that  self-discipline,  the  lack 
of  which  led  to  the  failures  which  you  now  bemoan. 
Soon  then  would  you  have  cause  to  wonder  how  much 
some  of  your  speculations  had  fallen  into  the  background, 
simply  because  the  truth,  showing  itself  grandly  true, 
had  so  filled  and  occupied  your  mind  that  it  left  no 
room  for  anxiety  about  such  questions  as,  while  secured 
in  the  interest  all  reality  gives,  were  yet  dwarfed  by  the 
side  of  it  I^jTothing,  I  repeat,  so  much  as  humble  min- 
istration to  your  neighbours,  will  help  you  to  that  perfect 
joye  of^ God  which  castetli  puf  fear;  not|iing  but  the  love 


MOOD    AND    WILL.  387 

of  God — that  God  revealed  in  Christ — will  make  you 
able  to  love  your  neighbour  aright;  and  the  Spirit  of 
God,  which  alone  gives  might  for  any  good,  will  by  these 
loves,  which  are  life,  strengthen  you  at  last  to  believe  in 
the  light  even  in  the  midst  of  darkness;  to  hold  the 
resolution  formed  in  health  when  sickness  has  altered 
the  appearance  of  everything  around  you;  and  to  feel 
tenderly  towards  your  fellow,  even  when  you  yourself 
are  plunged  in  dejection  or  racked  with  pain. — But,"  I 
said,  "  I  fear  I  have  transgressed  the  bounds  of  all  pro- 
priety by  enlarging  upon  this  matter  as  I  have  done.  I 
can  only  say  I  have  spoken  in  proportion  to  my  feeling 
of  its  weight  and  truth." 

"  I  thank  you  heartily,"  returned  Mr  Stoddart,  rising. 
"  And  I  promise  you  at  least  to  think  over  what  you 
have  been  saying — I  hope  to  be  in  my  old  place  in  the 
organ-loft  next  Sunday." 

So  he  was.  And  Miss  Oldcastle  was  in  the  pew  with 
her  mother.  Nor  did  she  go  any  more  to  Addicehead 
to  church. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  DEVIL  IN  THOMAS  WEIR, 

US  the  winter  went  on,  it  was  sad  to  look  on 
the  evident  though  slow  decline  of  Catherine 
Weir.  It  seemed  as  if  the  dead  season  was 
dragging  her  to  its  bosom,  to  lay  her  among 
the  leaves  of  past  summers.  She  was  still  to  be  found 
in  the  shop,  or  appeared  in  it  as  often  as  the  bell  sus- 
pended over  the  door  rang  to  announce  the  entrance  of 
a  customer;  but  she  was  terribly  worn,  and  her  step 
indicated  much  weakness.  Nor  had  the  signs  of  rest- 
less trouble  diminished  as  these  tide-marks  indicated 
ebbing  strength.  There  was  the  same  dry  fierce  fire  in 
her  eyes;  the  same  forceful  compression  of  her  hps; 
the  same  evidences  of  brooding  over  some  one  absorb- 
ing thought  or  feeling.  She  seemed  to  me,  and  to  Dr 
Duncan  as  well,  to  be  dying  of  resentment.  Would 
nobody  do  anything  for  her  1  I  thought.  Would  not  her 
j&ither  help  her  ]    He  had  got  more  gentle  now  j  whence 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THOMAS    WEIR.  389 

I  had  reason  to  hope  that  Christian  principles  and  feel- 
ings had  begun  to  rise  and  operate  in  him ;  while  surely 
the  influence  of  his  son  must,  by  this  time,  have  done 
something  not  only  to  soften  his  character  generally,  but 
to  appease  the  anger  he  had  cherished  towards  the  one 
ewe-lamb,  against  which,  having  wandered  away  into  the 
desert  place,  he  had  closed  and  barred  the  door  of  the 
sheep-fold.  I  would  go  and  see  him,  and  try  what  could 
be  done  for  her. 

I  may  be  forgiven  here  if  I  make  the  remark  that  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  what  measure  of  success  I  had 
already  had  with  my  people,  was  partly  owing  to  this, 
tliat  when  I  thought  of  a  thing  and  had  concluded  it 
might  do,  I  very  seldom  put  off  the  consequent  action. 
I  found  I  was  wrong  sometimes,  and  that  the  particular 
action  did  no  good ;  but  thus  movement  was  kept  up  in 
my  operative  nature,  preventing  it  from  sinking  towards 
the  inactivity  to  which  I  was  but  too  much  inclined. 
Besides,  to  find  out  what  will  not  do,  is  a  step  towards 
finding  out  what  will  do.  Moreover,  an  attempt  in  itself 
unsuccessful  may  set  something  or  other  in  motion  that 
will  help. 

My  present  attempt  turned  out  one  of  my  failures, 
though  I  cannot  think  that  it  would  have  been  better 
left  unmade. 

A  red  rayless  sun,  which  one  might  have  imagined 
sullen  and  disconsolate  because  he  could  not  make  the 
dead  earth  smile  into  flowers,  was  looking  through  the 
frosty  fog  of  the  winter  morning  as  I  walked  across  the 
bridge  to  find  Thomas  Weir  in  his  workshop.     The 


390  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

poplars  stood  like  goblin  sentinels,  with  black  heads, 
upon  which  the  long  hair  stood  on  end,  all  along  the 
dark  cold  river.  Nature  looked  Hke  a  life  out  of  which 
the  love  has  vanished.  I  turned  from  it  and  hastened 
on. 

Thomas  was  busy  working  with  a  spoke -sheave  at 
the  spoke  of  a  cart-wheel.  How  curiously  the  smallest 
visual  f^ct  will  sometimes  keep  its  place  in  the  memory, 
when  it  cannot  with  all  earnestness  of  endeavour  recall 
a  thought — a  far  more  important  fact !  That  will  coraf 
again  only  when  its  time  comes  first. 

"  A  cold  morning,  Thomas^"  I  called  from  the  door. 

"  I  can  always  keep  myself  warm,  sir,"  returned 
Thomas,  cheerfully. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Tom  1"  I  said,  going  up  to 
him  first. 

**A  little  job  for  myself,  sir.  I'm  making  a  few 
bookshelves." 

"  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  your  father.  Just 
step  out  in  a  minute  or  so,  and  let  me  have  half-an- 
hour." 

"Yes,  sir,  certainly." 

I  then  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  shop,  for,  curi- 
ously, as  it  seemed  to  me,  although  father  and  son  were 
on  the  best  of  terms,  they  always  worked  as  far  from  eacli 
other  as  the  shop  would  permit,  and  it  was  a  very  large 
room. 

"  It  is  not  easy  always  to  keep  warm  through  and 
through,  Thomas,"  I  said. 

I  suppose  my  tone  revealed  to  his  quick  perceptions 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THOMAS    WEIR.  39I 

that  "  more  was  meant  than  met  the  ear."  He  looked 
up  from  his  work,  his  tool  filled  with  an  uncompleted 
shaving. 

"  And  when  the  heart  gets  cold,"  I  went  on,  "  it  is 
not  easily  Avarmed  again.  The  fire 's  hard  to  light  there, 
Thomas." 

Still  he  looked  at  me,  stooping  over  his  work,  appar- 
ently with  a  presentiment  of  what  was  coming. 

"  I  fear  there  is  no  way  of  lighting  it  again,  except 
the  blacksmith's  way." 

"  Hammering  the  iron  till  it  is  red-hot,  you  mean, 
sir?" 

**  I  do.  When  a  man's  heart  has  grown  cold,  the 
blows  of  affliction  must  fall  thick  and  heavy  before  the 
fire  can  be  got  that  will  light  it. — When  did  you  see 
your  daughter  Catherine,  Thomas?" 

His  head  dropped,  and  he  began  to  work  as  if  for 
bare  life.  Not  a  word  came  from  the  form  now  bent 
over  his  tool  as  if  he  had  never  lifted  himself  up  since 
he  first  began  in  the  morning.  I  could  just  see  that 
his  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  his  lips  compressed  like 
those  of  one  of  the  violent  who  take  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  by  force.  But  it  was  for  no  such  agony  of  effort 
that  his  were  thus  closed.  He  went  on  working  till  the 
silence  became  so  lengthened  that  it  seemed  settled 
into  the  endless.  I  felt  embarrassed.  To  break  a  silence 
is  sometimes  as  hard  as  to  break  a  spell.  What  Thomas 
would  have  done  or  said  if  he  had  not  had  this  safety- 
valve  of  bodily  exertion,  I  cannot  even  imagine. 

**  Thomas,"  I  said,  at  length,  laying  my  hand  on  his 


392  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

shoulder,  "  you  are  not  going  to  part  company  with  me- 
Ihope?" 

"  You  drive  a  man  too  far,  sir.  I  've  given  in  more 
to  you  than  ever  I  did  to  man,  sir ;  and  I  don't  know 
that  I  oughtn't  to  be  ashamed  of  it.  But  you  don't 
know  where  to  stop.  If  we  lived  a  thousand  years  you 
would  be  driving  a  man  on  to  the  last.  And  there  'p 
no  good  in  that,  sir.  A  man  must  be  at  peace  some- 
when." 

"  The  question  is,  Thomas,  whether  I  would  be  driving 
you  on  or  l^ack.  You  and  I  too  musf  go  on  or  back. 
I  want  to  go  on  myself,  and  to  make  you  go  on  too.  I 
don't  want  to  be  parted  from  you  now  or  then." 

"  That 's  oil  very  well,  sir,  and  very  kind,  I  don't 
doubt;  but,  as  I  said  afore,  a  man  must  be  at  peace 
somewheiC* 

"That's  what  I  want  so  much  that  I  want  you  to  go 
on.  Peace  !  I  trust  in  God  we  shall  both  have  it  one 
day,  somewhen,  as  you  say.  Have  you  got  this  peace 
so  plentifully  now  that  you  are  satisfied  as  you  are? 
You  will  never  get  it  but  by  going  on." 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  good  got  in  stirring  a 
puddle.  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones.  You  make  a  mis- 
take, sir,  in  rousing  an  anger  which  I  would  willingly 
let  sleep." 

"Better  a  wakeful  anger,  and  a  wakeful  conscience 
with  it,  than  an  anger  sunk  into  indifference,  and  a 
sleeping  dog  of  a  conscience  that  will  not  bark.  To 
have  ceased  to  be  angry  is  not  one  step  nearer  to  your 
daughter.     Better  strike  her,  abuse  her,  with  the  chance 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THOMAS    WEIR.  393 

of  a  kiss  to  follow.  Ah,  Thomas,  you  are  like  Jonas 
with  his  gourd." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  You  are  fierce  in  wrath  at  the 
disgrace  to  your  family.  Your  pride  is  up  in  arms 
You  don't  care  for  the  misery  of  your  daugliter,  who, 
the  more  wrong  she  has  done,  is  the  more  to  be  pitied 
by  a  father's  heart.  Your  pride,  I  say,  is  all  that  you 
care  about  The  wrong  your  daughter  has  done,  you 
care  nothing  about;  or  you  would  have  taken  her  to 
your  arms  years  ago,  in  the  hope  that  the  fervour  ot 
your  love  would  drive  the  devil  out  of  her  and  make 
her  repent  I  say  it  is  not  the  wrong,  but  the  disgrace 
you  care  for.  The  gourd  of  your  pride  is  withered,  and 
yet  you  will  water  it  with  your  daughter's  misery." 

"  Go  out  of  my  shop,"  he  cried ;  "  or  I  may  say  what 
I  should  be  sorry  for." 

I  turned  at  once  and  left  him.  I  found  young  Tom 
round  the  corner,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  "heading 
his  Virgil. 

"  Don't  speak  to  your  father,  Tom,"  I  said,  "  for  a 
while.  I  've  put  him  out  of  temper.  He  will  be  best 
left  alone." 

He  looked  frightened. 

"  There  's  no  harm  done,  Tom,  my  boy.  I  've  been 
talking  to  him  about  your  sister.  He  must  have  time  to 
think  over  what  I  have  said  to  him." 

"  1  see,  sir ;  I  see." 

**  Be  as  attentive  to  him  as  you  can." 

"  I  will,  sir." 


394  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

It  was  not  alone  resentment  at  my  interference  that 
had  thus  put  the  poor  fellow  beside  himself,  I  was  cer- 
tain :  I  had  called  up  all  the  old  misery — set  the  wound 
bleeding  again.  Shame  was  once  more  wide  awake  and 
tearing  at  his  heart.  That  his  daughter  should  have 
done  so  !  For  she  had  been  his  pride.  She  had  been 
the  belle  of  the  village,  and  very  lovely;  but  having 
been  apprenticed  to  a  dressmaker  in  Addicehead,  hati, 
after  being  there  about  a  year  and  a  half,  returned  home, 
apparently  in  a  decline.  After  the  birth  of  her  child, 
however,  she  had,  to  her  own  disappointment,  and  no 
doubt  to  that  of  her  father  as  well,  begun  to  recover. 
What  a  time  of  wretchedness  it  must  have  been  to  both 
of  them  until  she  left  his  house,  one  can  imagine.  Most 
likely  the  misery  of  the  father  vented  itself  in  greater 
unkindness  than  he  felt,  which,  sinking  into  the  proud 
nature  she  had  derived  from  him,  roused  such  a  resent- 
ment as  rarely  if  ever  can  be  thoroughly  appeased  until 
Death  comes  in  to  help  the  reconciliation.  How  often 
has  an  old  love  blazed  up  again  under  the  blowing  of 
his  cold  breath,  and  sent  the  spirit  warm  at  heart  into 
the  regions  of  the  unknown  !  She  never  would  utter  a 
word  to  reveal  the  name  or  condition  of  him  by  whom 
she  had  been  wronged.  To  his  child,  as  long  as  he 
drew  his  life  from  her,  she  behaved  with  strange  alterna- 
tions of  dislike  and  passionate  affection  ;  after  which 
season  the  latter  began  to  diminish  in  violence,  and  the 
former  to  become  more  fixed,  till  at  length,  by  the  time 
I  had  made  their  acquaintance,  her  feelings  seemed  to 
have  settled  into  what  would  have  been  indifference  but 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THOMAS    WEIR.  30< 


for  the  constant  reminder  of  her  shame  and  her  wrong 
together,  which  his  very  presence  necessarily  was. 

They  were  not  only  the  gossips  of  the  village  who 
judged  that  the  fact  of  Addicehead's  being  a  garrison 
town  had  something  to  do  with  the  fate  that  had  befallen 
her;  a  fate  by  which,  in  its  very  spring-time,  when  it:; 
flowers  were  loveliest,  and  hope  was  strongest  for  its 
summer,  her  life  was  changed  into  the  dreary  wind- 
swept, rain-sodden  moor.  The  man  who  can  accept  such 
a  sacrifice  from  a  woman, — I  say  nothing  of  wiling  it 
from  her — is,  in  his  meanness,  selfishness,  and  dishon- 
our, contemptible  as  the  Pharisee  who,  with  his  long 
prayers,  devours  the  widow's  house.  He  leaves  her 
desolate,  while  he  walks  off  free.  Would  to  God  a  man 
like  the  great-hearted,  pure-bodied  Milton,  a  man  whom 
young  men  are  compelled  to  respect,  would  in  this  our 
age,  utter  such  a  word  as,  making  "  mad  the  guilty,"  if 
such  grace  might  be  accorded  them,  would  "  appal  the 
free,"  lest  they  too  should  fall  into  such  a  mire  of  selfish 
dishonour  I 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  DEVIL  IN  CATHERINE  WEIR. 

IBOUT  this  time  my  father  was  taken  ill,  and 
several  journeys  to  London  followed.  It  is 
only  as  vicar  that  I  am  writing  these  mecio- 
rials — for  such  they  should  be  called,  rat'ner 
than  annals,  though  certainly  the  use  of  the  latter  word 
has  of  late  become  vague  enough  for  all  convenience — 
therefore  I  have  said  nothing  about  my  home-relations ; 
but  I  must  just  mention  here  that  I  had  a  half-sister, 
about  half  my  own  age,  whose  anxiety  during  my  father's 
illness  rendered  my  visits  more  frequent  than  perhaps 
they  would  have  been  from  my  own.  But  my  sister  was 
right  in  her  anxiety.  My  father  grew  worse,  and  in 
December  he  died.  I  will  not  eulogize  one  so  dear  to 
me.  That  he  was  no  common  man  will,  appear  from 
the  fact  of  his  unconventionality  and  justice  in  leaving 
his  property  to  my  sister,  saying  in  his  will  that  he  had 
done  all  I  coukl  require  of  him,  in  giving  me  a  good 


THE    DEVIL    IN    CATHERINE    WEIR.  397 

education ;  and  that,  men  having  means  in  their  power 
which  women  had  not,  it  was  unjust  to  the  latter  to 
make  them,  without  a  choice,  dependent  upon  the  f.:r- 
mer.  After  the  funeral,  my  sister,  feeling  it  impossible 
to  remain  in  the  house  any  longer,  begged  me  to  take 
her  with  me.  So,  after  arranging  affairs,  we  set  out,  and 
reached  Marshmallows  on  New  Year's  Day. 

My  sister  being  so  much  younger  than  myself,  her 
presence  in  my  house  made  very  little  change  in  my 
habits.  She  came  into  my  ways  without  any  difficulty, 
so  that  I  did  not  experience  the  least  restraint  from 
having  to  consider  her.  And  I  soon  began  to  find  her 
of  considerable  service  among  the  poor  and  sick  of  my 
flock,  the  latter  class  being  more  numerous  this  vvinter, 
on  account  of  the  greater  severity  of  the  weather.  • 

I  now  began  to  note  a  change  in  the  habits  of  Cather- 
ine Weir.  As  far  as  I  remember,  I  had  never  up  to  this 
time  £.6 en  her  out  of  her  own  house,  except  in  church, 
nt  which  she  had  been  a  regular  attendant  for  many 
weeks.  Now,  however,  I  began  to  meet  her  when  and 
where  I  least  expected — I  do  not  say  often,  but  so  often 
as  to  make  me  believe  she  went  wandering  about  fre- 
quently. It  was  always  at  night,  however,  and  always 
in  stormy  weather.  The  marvel  was,  not  that  a  sick 
woman  could  be  there — for  a  sick  woman  may  be  able 
to  do  anything;  but  that  she  could  do  so  more  than  once 
— that  was  the"  marvel.  At  the  same  time,  I  began  to 
miss  her  from  church. 

Possibly  my  reader  may  wonder  how  I  came  to  have 
the  chance  of  meeting  any  one  again  and  again  at  night 


398  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

and  in  stormy  weather.  I  can  relieve  him  from  the 
difficulty.  Odd  as  it  will  appear  to  some  readers,  I  had 
naturally  a  predilection  for  rough  weather.  I  think  I 
enjoyed  fighting  with  a  storm  in  winter  nearly  as  much 
as  lying  on  the  grass  under  a  beech-tree  in  summer 
Possibly  this  assertion  may  seem  strange  to  one  likewise 
who  has  remarked  the  ordinary  peaceableness  of  my 
disposition.  But  he  may  have  done  me  the  justice  to 
remark  at  the  same  time,  that  I  have  some  considerable 
pleasure  in  fighting  the  devil,  though  none  in  fighting 
my  fellow-man,  even  in  the  ordinary  form  of  disputation, 
in  which  it  is  not  heart's  blood,  but  soul's  blood,  that  is 
so  often  shed.  Indeed  there  are  many  controversies  far 
more  immoral,  as  to  the  manner  in  which  they  are  con- 
ducted, than  a  brutal  prize-fight.  There  is,  however, 
a  pleasure  of  its  own  in  conflict;  and  I  have  always 
experienced  a  certain  indescribable,  though  I  belie Vi 
not  at  all  unusual  exaltation,  even  in  struggling  with  a 
well-set.  thoroughly  roused  storm  of  wind  and  sno^ 
or  rain.  The  sources  of  this  by  no  means  unusual 
delight,  I  will  not  stay  to  examine,  indicating  only 
that  I  believe  the  sources  are  deep. — I  was  now  quite 
well,  and  had  no  reason  to  fear  bad  consequences  from 
the  indulgence  of  this  surely  innocent  form  of  the  love 
of  strife. 

Bui  I  find  I  must  give  another  reason  as  well,  if  I 
would  be  thoroughly  honest  with  my  reader.  The  fact 
was,  that  as  I  had  recovered  strength,  I  had  become 
more  troubled  and  restless  about  Miss  Oldcastle.  I 
could  not  see  how  I  was  to  make  any  progress  towards 


THE    DEVIL    IN    CATHERINE    WEIR.  399 

her  favour.  There  seemed  a  barrier  as  insurmountable 
as  intangible  between  her  and  me.  The  will  of  one 
woman  came  between  and  parted  us,  and  that  will  was 
as  the  magic  line  over  which  no  effort  of  will  or  strength 
could  enable  the  enchanted  knight  to  make  a  single 
stride.  And  this  consciousness  of  being  fettered  by  in 
sensible  and  infrangible  bonds,  this  need  of  doing  some- 
thing with  nothing  tangible  in  the  reach  of  the  out- 
stretched hand,  so  worked  upon  my  mind,  that  it  natur- 
ally sought  relief,  as  often  as  the  elemental  strife  arose, 
by  mingling  unconstrained  with  the  tumult  of  the  night. 
— Will  my  readers  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  this  dis- 
quietude of  mind  should  gradually  sink  away  as  the 
hours  of  Saturday  glided  down  into  night,  and  the  day 
of  my  best  labour  drew  nigh?  Or  will  they  answer, 
"We  believe  it  easily;  for  then  you  could  at  least  see 
the  lady,  and  that  comforted  you?"  Whatever  it  was 
that  quieted  me,  not  the  less  have  I  to  thank  God  for  it. 
All  might  have  been  so  different.  What  a  fearful  thing 
would  it  have  been  for  me  to  have  found  my  mind  so 
full  of  my  own  cares,  that  I  was  unable  to  do  God's 
work  and  bear  my  neighbour's  burden  !  But  even  then 
I  would  have  cried  to  Him,  and  said,  "  I  know  Thee 
that  Thou  art  not  a  hard  master." 

Now,  however,  that  I  have  quite  accounted,  as  I  be- 
licvC;  by  the  peculiarity  both  of  my  disposition  and  cir- 
cum'itances,  for  unusual  wanderings  under  conditions 
when  most  people  consider  themselves  fortunate  within 
doors,  I  must  return  to  Catherine  Weir,  the  eccentricity 
of  whose  lale  behaviour,  being  in  the  particulars  dis- 


40O  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

cussed  identical  with  that  of  mine,  led  to  the  necessity 
for  the  explanation  of  my  habits  given  above. 

One  January  afternoon,  just  as  twilight  was  folding 
her  gray  cloak  about  her,  and  vanishing  in  the  night,  the 
wind  blowing  hard  from  the  south-west,  melting  the  snow 
under  foot,  and  sorely  disturbing  the  dignity  of  the  one 
grand  old  cedar  which  stood  before  my  study  window, 
and  now  filled  my  room  with  the  great  sweeps  of  its 
moaning,  I  felt  as  if  the  elements  were  calling  me,  and 
rose  to  obey  the  summons.  My  sister  was,  by  this  time, 
so  accustomed  to  my  going  out  in  all  weathers,  that  she 
troubled  me  with  no  expostulation.  My  spirits  began 
to  rise  the  moment  I  was  in  the  wind.  Keen,  and  cold, 
and  unsparing,  it  swept  through  the  leafless  branches 
around  me,  with  a  different  hiss  for  every  tree  that  bent, 
and  swayed,  and  tossed  in  its  torrent.  I  made  my  way 
to  the  gate  and  out  upon  the  road,  and  then,  turning  to 
the  right,  away  from  the  village,  I  sought  a  kind  of  com- 
mon, open  and  treeless,  the  nearest  approach  to  a  moor 
that  there  was  in  the  county,  I  believe,  over  which  a 
wind  like  this  would  sweep  unstayed  by  house,  or  shrub, 
or  fence,  the  only  shelter  it  afforded  lying  in  the  inequa- 
lities of  its  surface. 

I  had  walked  with  my  head  bent  low  against  the 
blast,  for  the  better  part  of  a  mile,  fighting  for  every 
step  of  the  way,  when,  coming  to  a  deep  cut  in  the  com- 
mon, opening  at  right  angles  from  the  road,  whence  at 
some  time  or  other  a  large  quantity  of  sand  had  been 
carted,  I  turned  into  its  defence  to  recover  my  breath, 
and  listen  to  the  noise  of  the  wind  in  the  fierce  rash  of 


THE   DEVIL    IN    CATHERINE   WEIR.  40T 

its  sea  over  the  open  channel  of  the  common.  And  1 
remember  I  was  thinking  with  myself:  "If  the  ail 
wo,uld  only  become  faintly  visible  for  a  moment,  what  a 
sight  it  would  be  of  waste  gxandeur  with  its  thousand? 
of  billowing  eddies,  and  self-involved,  conflicting,  and 
swallowing  whirlpools  from  the  sea-bottom  of  this  com- 
mon ! "  when,  with  my  imagination  resting  on  the  fancied 
vision,  I  was  startled  by  such  a  moan  as  seemed  about 
to  break  into  a  storm  of  passionate  cries,  but  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  words  : 

"  O  God  !  I  cannot  bear  it  longer.  Hast  thou  no 
h^lp  for  me  f 

Instinctively  almost  I  knew  that  Catherine  Weir  was 
beside  me,  though  I  could  not  see  where  she  was.  In 
a  moment  more,  however,  I  thought  I  could  distinguish 
through  the  darkness — imagination  no  doubt  filling  up 
the  truth  of  its  form — a  figure  crouching  in  such  an 
attitude  of  abandoned  despair  as  recalled  one  of  Flax 
man's  outlines,  the  body  bent  forward  over  the  drawn-up 
knees,  and  the  face  thus  hidden  even  from  the  darkness. 
I  could  not  help  saying  to  myself,  as  I  took  a  step  or 
two  towards  her,  "  What  is  thy  trouble  to  hers  !" 

I  may  here  remark  that  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion, 

from  pondering  over  her  case,  that  until  a  yet  deeper 

and  bitterer  resentment  than  that  which  she  bore  to  her 

father  was  removed,  it  would  be  of  no  use  attacking  the 

latter.     For  the  former  kept  her  in  a  state  of  hostility 

towaids  her  whole  race  :  with  herself  at  war  she  had  no 

gentle  thoughts,  no  love  for  her  kind ;  but  ever 

'*  She  fed  her  wound  with  fresh -renewed  bale" 

2  C 


402  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 

from  every  hurt  that  she  received  from  or  imagined  to 
be  ofiered  her  by  anything  human.  So  I  had  resolved 
that  the  next  time  I  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
her,  I  would  make  an  attempt  to  probe  the  evil  to  its 
root,  though  I  had  but  little  hope,  I  confess,  of  doing 
any  good.  And  now  when  I  heard  her  say,  "  Hast 
thou  no  help  for  me  V  I  went  near  her  with  the  words  : 

"  God  has,  indeed,  help  for  His  own  offspring.  Has 
He  not  suffered  that  He  might  help?  But  you  have 
not  yet  forgiven." 

When  I  began  to  speak,  she  gave  a  slight  start :  she 
was  far  too  miserable  to  be  terrified  at  anything.  Before 
I  had  finished,  she  stood  erect  on  her  feet,  facing  me 
with  the  whiteness  of  her  face  glimmering  through  the 
blackness  of  the  night 

"  I  ask  Him  for  peace,"  she  said,  "  and  He  sends  me 
more  torment." 

And  I  thought  of  Ahab  when  he  said,  "  Hast  thou 
found  me,  O  mine  enemy  % " 

"  If  we  had  what  we  asked  for  always,  we  should  too 
often  find  it  was  not  what  we  wanted,  after  all." 

"  You  will  not  leave  me  alone,"  she  said.  "  It  is  too 
bad." 

Poor  woman !  It  was  well  for  her  she  could  pray  to 
God  in  her  trouble ;  for  she  could  scarcely  endure  a  word 
from  her  fellow-man.  She,  despairing  before  God,  was 
fierce  as  a  tigress  to  her  fellow-sinner  who  would  stretch 
a  hand  to  help  her  out  of  the  mire,  and  set  her  beside 
him  on  the  rock  which  he  felt  firm  under  hi*  own  feet 

"  I  will  not  leave  you  alone,  Catherine/'  I  said,  feel- 


THE    DEVIL   IN    CATHERINE   WEIR.  40J 

ing  that  I  must  at  length  assume  another  tone  of  speech 
with  her  who  resisted  gentleness.  "  Scorn  my  inter- 
ference as  you  will,"  I  said,  "  I  have  yet  to  give  an 
account  of  you.  And  I  have  to  fear  lest  my  Master 
should  require  your  blood  at  my  hands.  I  did  not 
follow  you  here,  you  may  well  believe  me ;  but  I  have 
found  you  here,  and  I  must  speak." 

All  this  time  the  wind  was  roaring  overhead.  But 
in  the  hollow  was  stillness,  and  I  was  so  near  her,  that 
I  could  hear  every  word  she  said,  although  she  spoke 
in  a  low  compressed  tone. 

"  Have  you  a  right  to  persecute  me,"  she  said,  "  be- 
cause I  am  unhappy  1" 

"  I  have  a  right,  and,  more  than  a  right,  I  have  a 
duty  to  aid  your  better  self  against  your  worse.  You,  I 
fear,  are  siding  with  your  worse  self." 

"You  judge  me  hard.     I  have  had  wrongs  that " 

And  here  she  stopped  in  a  way  that  let  me  know  she 
would  say  no  more. 

"  That  you  have  had  wrongs,  and  bitter  wrongs,  I 
do  not  for  a  moment  doubt.  And  him  who  has  done 
you  most  wrong,  you  will  not  forgive." 

"  No." 

"  No.  Not  even  for  the  sake  of  Him  who,  hanging  on 
the  tree,  after  all  the  bitterness  of  blows  and  whipping, 
and  derision,  and  rudest  gestures  and  taunts,  even  when 
the  faintness  of  death  was  upon  Him,  cried  to  His  Father 
to  forgive  their  cruelty.  He  asks  you  to  forgive  tiie 
man  who  wronged  you,  and  you  will  not — not  even  foi 
Him  !     Oh,  Catherine,  Catherine  !" 


404  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGII  BOURHOOn. 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  talk,  Mr  Walton,"  she  returned 
with  forced  but  cool  scorn. 

"  Tell  me,  then,"  I  said,  "  have  you  nothing  to  repenl 
of?  Have  you  done  no  wrong  in  this  same  miserable 
matter?" 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  she  said,  freezingly, 
petulantly,  not  sure,  perhaps,  or  unwiUing  to  believe, 
that  I  meant  what  I  did  mean. 

I  was  fully  resolved  to  be  plain  with  her  now. 

"  Catherine  Weir,"  I  said,  "  did  not  God  give  you  a 
house  to  keep  fair  and  pure  for  Him  ?  Did  you  keep  it 
such?" 

"  He  told  me  lies,"  she  cried  fiercely,  with  a  cry  that 
seemed  to  pierce  through  the  storm  over  our  heads,  up 
towards  the  everlasting  justice.  "  He  lied,  and  I  trusted. 
For  his  sake  I  sinned,  and  he  threw  me  from  him." 

"  You  gave  him  what  was  not  yours  to  give.  What 
right  had  you  to  cast  your  pearl  before  a  swine?  But 
dare  you  say  it  was  all  for  his  sake  you  did  it?  Was  it 
a// self-denial ?     Was  there  no  self-indulgence?" 

She  made  a  broken  gesture  of  lifting  her  hands  to  her 
head,  let  them  drop  by  her  side,  and  said  nothing. 
.  ^"  You  knew  you  were  doing  wrong.  You  felt  it  even 
more  than  he  did.  For  God  made  you  with  a  more 
delicate  sense  of  purity,  widi  a  shrinking  from  tlie 
temptation,  with  a  womanly  foreboding  of  disgrace,  to 
help  you  to  hold  the  cup  of  your  honour  steady,  wliich 
yet  you  dropped  on  the  ground.  Do  not  seek  refuge 
in  the  cant  about  a  woman's  weakness.  The  strength 
of  the  woman  is  as  needful  to  her  womanhood  as  tliu 


THE    DEVIL    IN    CATHERINE    WEIR.  40J 

Strength  of  the  man  is  to  his  manhood ;  and  a  woman 
is  just  as  strong  as  she  will  be.  And  now,  instead  of 
humbling  yourself  before  your  Father  in  heaven,  whom 
you  have  wronged  more  even  than  your  father  on  earth, 
you  rage  over  your  injuries  and  cherish  hatred  against 
him  who  wronged  you.  But  I  will  go  yet  further,  and 
show  you,  in  God's  name,  that  you  wronged  your  seducer. 
For  you  were  his  keeper,  as  he  was  yours.  What  if  he 
had  found  a  noble-hearted  girl  who  also  trusted  him 
entirely — ^just  until  she  knew  she  ought  not  to  listen  to 
him  a  moment  longer?  who,  when  his  love  showed  itself 
less  than  human,  caring  but  for  itself,  rose  in  the  royalty 
of  her  maidenhood,  and  looked  him  in  the  face  1  Would 
he  not  have  been  ashamed  before  her,  and  so  before 
himself,  seeing  in  the  glass  ot  her  dignity  his  own  con- 
temptibleness  ?  But  instead  of  such  a  woman  he  found 
you,  who  let  him  do  as  he  would.  No  redemption  for 
him  in  you.  And  now  he  walks  the  earth  the  worse  for 
you,  defiled  by  your  spoil,  glorying  in  his  poor  victory 
over  you,  despising  all  women  for  your  sake,  unrepentant 
and  proud,  ruining  others  the  easier  that  he  has  already 
ruined  you," 

"  He  does  !  he  does  ! "  she  shrieked ;  "  but  I  will  have 
my  revenge.     I  can  and  I  will.'' 

And,  darting  past  me,  she  rushed  out  into  the  storm, 
1  followed,  and  could  just  see  that  she  took  the  way  to 
the  village.  Her  dim  shape  went  down  the  wind  before 
me  into  the  darkness.  I  followed  in  the  same  direction, 
tast  and  faster,  for  the  wind  was  behind  me,  and  a  vague 
fear  which  ever  grew  in  my  heart  urged  me  to  overtake 


406  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

her.  What  had  I  done?  To  what  might  I  not  have 
driven  her  ?  And  although  all  I  had  said  was  true,  and 
I  had  spoken  from  motives  which,  as  /ar  as  I  knew  m\ 
own  heart,  I  could  not  condemn,  yet,  as  I  sped  aftei 
her,  there  came  a  reaction  of  feeling  from  the  severity 
with  which  I  had  displayed  her  own  case  against  her. 
"  Ah  !  poor  sister,"  I  thought,  "  was  it  for  me  thus  to 
reproach  thee  who  had  suffered  already  so  fiercely  1  If 
the  Spirit  speaking  in  thy  heart  could  not  win  thee,  how 
should  my  words  of  hard  accusation,  true  though  they 
were,  every  one  of  them,  rouse  in  thee  anything  but  the 
wrath  that  springs  from  shame?  Should  I  not  have  tried 
again,  and  yet  again,  to  waken  thy  love ;  and  then  a 
sweet  and  healing  shame,  like  that  of  her  who  bathed 
the  Master's  feet  with  her  tears,  would  have  bred  fresh 
love,  and  no  wrath." 

But  again  I  answered  for  myself,  that  my  heart  had 
not  been  the  less  tender  towards  her  that  I  had  tried  to 
humble  her,  for  it  was  that  she  might  slip  from  under 
the  net  of  her  pride.  Even  when  my  tongue  spoke  the 
hardest  things  I  could  find,  my  heart  was  yearning  over 
her.  If  I  could  but  make  her  feel  tliat  she  too  had-been 
wrong,  would  not  the  sense  of  common  wrong  between 
them  help  her  to  forgive  ?  And  with  the  first  motion  of 
willing  pardon,  would  not  a  spring  of  tenderness,  grief, 
and  hope,  burst  from  her  poor  old  dried-up  heart,  and 
make  it  young  and  fresh  once  more !  Thus  I  reasoned 
with  myself  as  I  followed  her  back  through  the  darkness. 

The  wind  fell  a  little  as  we  came  near  the  village,  and 
the  rain  began  to  come  down  in  torrents.     There  musl 


THE   DEVIL    IN    CATHERINE   WEIR.  40; 

have  been  a  moon  somewhere  behind  the  clouds,  fo? 
tlie  darkness  became  less  dense,  and  I  began  to  fancy  1 
could  again  see  the  dim  shape  which  had  rushed  from 
me.  I  increased  my  speed,  and  became  certain  of  it. 
Suddenly,  her  strength  giving  way,  or  her  foot  stumbling 
over  something  in  the  road,  she  fell  to  the  earth  with  a 
cry. 

I  was  beside  her  in  a  moment.  She  was  insensible. 
I  did  what  I  could  for  her,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she 
began  to  come  to  herself. 

"Where  am  I?    Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  listlessly. 

When  she  found  who  I  was,  she  made  a  great  effort  to 
rise,  and  succeeded. 

"  You  must  take  my  arm/'  I  said,  "  and  I  will  help 
you  to  the  vicarage." 

"  I  will  go  home,"  she  answered. 

"  Lean  on  me  now,  at  least;  for  you  must  j'ct  some- 
where.' 

"  Wliat  does  it  matter  1 "  she  said,  in  such  a  tone  of 
despair,  that  it  went  to  my  very  heart. 

A  wild  half  cry,  half-sob  followed,  and  then  she  took 
my  arm,  and  said  nothing  more.  Nor  did  I  trouble  her 
with  any  words,  except,  when  we  reached  the  gate,  to 
beg  her  to  come  into  the  vicarage  instead  of  going 
home.  But  she  would  not  listen  to  me,  and  so  I  took 
hei  home. 

She  pulled  the  key  of  the  shop  from  her  pocket.  Her 
hand  trembled  so  that  I  took  it  from  her,  and  opened 
the  door.  A  candle  with  a  long  snuff  was  flickering  on 
the  counter ;  and  stretched  out  on  the  counter,  with  hia 


408  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

head  about  a  foot  from  the  candle,  lay  little  Gerard,  fast 
Asleep. 

"  Ah,  little  darling ! "  I  said  in  my  heart,  "  this  is  not 
much  like  painting  the  sky  yet  But  who  knows?"  And 
as  I  uttered  the  commonplace  question  in  my  mind,  in 
my  mind  it  was  suddenly  changed  into  the  half  of  a  great 
dim  prophecy  by  the  answer  which  arose  to  it  there,  for 
the  answer  was  "  God." 

I  lifted  the  little  fellow  in  my  arms.  He  had  fallen 
asleep  weeping,  and  his  face  was  dirty,  and  streaked 
with  the  channels  of  his  tears.  Catherine  had  snuffed 
the  candle,  and  now  stood  with  it  in  her  hand,  waiting 
for  me  to  go.  But,  without  heeding  her,  I  bore  ni}' 
child  to  the  door  that  led  to  their  dwelling.  I  had 
never  been  up  those  stairs  before,  and  therefore  knew 
nothing  of  the  way.  But  without  offering  any  opposi- 
tion, his  mother  followed,  and  lighted  me.  What  a  sad 
face  of  suffering  and  strife  it  was  upon  which  that  dim 
light  fell !  She  set  the  candle  down  upon  the  table  of  a 
small  room  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  which  might  have 
been  comfortable  enough  but  that  it  was  neglected  and 
disordered ;  and  now  I  saw  that  she  lid  not  even  have 
her  child  to  sleep  with  her,  for  his  crib  stood  in  a  comer 
of  this  their  sitting-room. 

I  sat  down  on  a  haircloth  couch,  and  proceeded  lo 
undress  little  Gerard,  trying  as  much  as  I  could  not  to 
wake  him.  In  this  I  was  almost  successful.  Catherine 
stood  staring  at  me  without  saying  a  word.  She  looked 
dazed,  perhaps  from  the  effects  of  her  fall.  But  she 
brought  me  his  nightgown  notwithstanding.     Just  as  I 


THE   DEVIL    IN    CATHERINE   WEIR.  409 

had  finished  putting  it  on,  and  was  rising  to  lay  him  in 
his  crib,  lie  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  me;  then 
gave  a  hurried  look  round,  as  if  for  his  mother;  then 
threw  his  arms  about,  my  neck  and  kissed  me.  I  laid 
him  down  and  the  same  moment  he  was  fast  asleep.  In 
the  morning  it  would  not  be  even  a  dream  to  him. 

"  Now,"  I  thought,  "  you  are  safe  for  the  night,  poor 
fatherless  child.  Even  your  mother's  hardness  will  not 
make  you  sad  now.  Perhaps  the  heavenly  Father  will 
send  you  loving  dreams." 

I  turned  to  Catherine,  and  bade  her  good-night.  She 
just  put  her  hand  in  mine ;  but,  instead  of  returning  my 
leave-taking,  said  : 

"  Do  not  fancy  you  will  get  the  better  of  me.  Mi 
Walton,  by  being  kind  to  that  boy.  I  will  have  my 
revenge,  and  I  know  how.  I  am  only  waiting  my  time. 
When  he  is  just  going  to  drink,  I  will  dash  it  from  his 
hand.     I  will.     At  the  altar  I  will." 

Her  eyes  were  flashing  almost  with  madness,  and  she 
ma  ""e  fierce  gestures  with  her  arm.  I  saw  that  argument 
was  useless. 

"You  loved  him  once,  Catherine,"  I  said.  *'Love 
him  again.  Love  him  better.  Forgive  him.  Revenge 
is  far  worse  than  anything  you  have  done  yet." 

"  What  do  I  care  1     Why  should  I  care  1 " 

And  she  laughed  terribly. 

I  made  haste  to  leave  the  room  and  the  house ;  but  I 
lingered  for  nearly  an  hour  about  the  place  before  1 
could  make  up  my  mind  to  go  home,  so  much  was  I 
§fraid  lest  she  should  do  sometliing  altogether  insane. 


4IO  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

But  at  length  I  saw  the  candle  appear  in  the  shop,  which 
was  some  relief  to  my  anxiety ;  and  reflecting  that  hei 
one  consuming  thought  of  revenge  was  some  security  for 
her  conduct  otherwise,  I  went  home. 

That  night  my  own  troubles  seemed  small  to  me,  and 
I  did  not  brood  over  them  at  all.  My  mind  was  filled 
with  the  idea  of  the  sad  misery  which,  rather  than  in 
which,  that  poor  woman  was ;  and  I  prayed  for  her  as 
for  a  desolate  human  world  whose  sun  had  deserted  the 
heavens,  whose  fair  fields,  rivers,  and  groves  were  har- 
dening into  the  frost  of  death,  and  all  their  germs  of 
hope  becoming  but  portions  of  the  lifeless  mass.  "  If  I 
am  sorrowful,"  I  said,  "  God  lives  none  the  less.  And 
His  will  is  better  than  mine,  yea,  is  my  hidden  and  per- 
fected will.  In  Him  is  my  life.  His  will  be  done. 
What,  then,  is  my  trouble  compared  to  hers?  I  will 
not  sink  into  it  and  be  selfish." 

In  the  morning  my  first  business  was  to  inquire  after 
her.  I  found  her  in  the  shop,  looking  very  ill,  and 
obstinately  reserved.  Gerard  sat  in  a  comer,  looking  as 
far  from  happy  as  a  child  of  his  years  could  looL  As  I 
left  the  shop  he  crept  out  with  me. 

"  Gerard,  come  back,"  cried  his  mother. 

"  I  will  not  take  him  away,"  I  said. 

The  boy  looked  up  in  xxiy  face,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
whisper  to  rae,  and  I  stooped  to  listen. 

"  I  dreamed  last  night,'  said  the  bpy,  " that  a  big 
angel  with  white  wings  came  and  took  me  out  of  my 
bed,  and  carried  me  high,  high  up — so  high  that  |  could 
not  dream  any  more." 


THE    DEVIL    IN    CATHERINE   WEIR.  4II 

"  We  shall  be  carried  up  so  high  one  day,  Gerard,  my 
boy,  that  we  shall  not  want  to  dream  any  more.  For 
we  shall  be  carried  up  to  God  himself.  Now  go  back  to 
your  mother." 

tie  obeyed  at  once,  and  I  went  on  through  the  village 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 

THE  DEVIL  IN  THE  VICAR. 

WANTED  just  to  pass  the  gate,  and  look  up 
the  road  towards  Oldcastle  Hall.  I  thought 
to  see  nothing  but  the  empty  road  between 
the  leafless  trees,  lying  there  like  a  dead 
stream  that  would  not  bear  me  on  to  the  "  sunny  plea- 
sure-dome with  caves  of  ice  "  that  lay  beyond.  But  just 
as  I  reached  the  gate.  Miss  Oldcastle  came  out  of  the 
lodge,  where  I  learned  afterwards  the  woman  that  kept 
the  gate  was  ill. 

When  she  saw  me  she  stopped,  and  I  entered  hur- 
riedly, and  addressed  her.  But  I  could  say  nothing 
better  than  the  merest  commonplaces.  For  her  old 
manner,  which  I  had  almost  forgotten,  a  certain  cold- 
ness shadowed  with  haughtiness,  whose  influence  I  had 
strongly  felt  when  I  began  to  make  her  acquaintance, 
had  returned.  .  I  cannot  make  my  reader  understand 
how  this  could  be  blended  with  the  sweetness  in  hex 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THE   VICAR.  4S3 

face  and  the  gentleness  of  her  manners ;  but  there  the 
opposites  were,  and  I  could  feel  them  both.  There  was 
likewise  a  certain  drawing  of  herself  away  from  me, 
which  checked  the  smallest  advance  on  my  part;  so 
that — I  wonder  at  it  now,  but  so  it  was — after  a  few 
words  of  very  ordinary  conversation,  I  bade  her  good 
morning  and  went  away,  feeling  like  *'  a  man  forbid  " — 
as  if  I  had  done  her  some  wrong,  and  she  had  chidden 
me  for  it.  What  a  stone  lay  in  my  breast!  I  could 
hardly  breathe  for  it.  What  could  have  caused  her  to 
change  her  manner  towards  mel  I  had  made  no  ad- 
vance ;  I  could  not  have  offended  her.  Yet  there  she 
glided  up  the  road,  and  here  stood  I,  outside  the  gate. 
That  road  was  now  a  flowing  river  that  bore  from  me 
the  treasure  of  the  earth,  while  my  boat  was  spell-bound, 
iud  could  not  follow.  I  would  run  after  her,  fall  at  he*' 
feet,  and  intreat  to  know  wherein  I  had  offended  her. 
But  there  I  stood  enchanted,  and  there  she  floated  away 
between  the  trees;  till  at  length  she  turned  the  slow 
sweep,  and  I,  breathing  deep  as  she  vanished  from  my 
sight,  turned  likewise,  and  walked  back  the  dreary  way 
to  the  village.  And  now  I  knew  that  I  had  never  been 
miserable  in  my  life  before.  And  I  knew,  too,  that  T 
had  never  loved  her  as  I  loved  her  now. 

But,  as  I  had  for  the  last  ten  years  of  my  life  been 
striving  to  be  a  right  will,  with  a  thousand  failures  and 
forgetfulnesses  every  one  of  those  years,  while  yet  the 
desire  grew  stronger  as  h>pe  recovered  from  every  fail- 
ure, I  would  now  try  to  do  my  work  as  if  nothing  had 
happened  to  incapacitate  me  for  it.     So  I  wen»  on  to 


414  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

fulfil  the  plan  with  which  I  had  left  home,  including,  as 
it  did,  a  visit  to  Thomas  Weir,  whom  I  had  not  seen  in 
his  own  shop  since  he  had  ordered  me  out  of  it  This, 
as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  was  more  accidental  than 
intentional.  I  had,  indeed,  abstained  from  going  to  him 
for  a  while,  in  order  to  give  him  time  to  come  round ; 
but  then  circumstances  which  I  have  recorded  inter- 
vened to  prevent  me;  so  that  as  yet  no  advance  had 
been  made  on  my  part  any  more  than  on  his  towards  a 
reconciliation ;  which,  however,  could  have  been  such 
only  on  one  side^  for  I  had  not  been  in  the  least 
offended  by  the  way  he  had  behaved  to  me,  and  needed 
no  reconciliation.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  pleased  to 
find  that  my  words  had  had  force  enough  with  him  to 
rouse  his  wrath.  Anything  rather  than  indiffereiice  ! 
That  the  heart  of  the  honest  man  would  in  the  end  right 
me,  I  could  not  doubt;  in  the  meantime  I  would  see 
whether  a  friendly  call  might  not  improve  the  state  ot 
affairs.  Till  he  yielded  to  the  voice  within  him,  liow- 
ever,  I  could  not  expect  that  our  relation  to  each  otiier 
would  be  quite  restored.  As  long  as  he  resisted  his 
conscience,  and  knew  that  I  sided  with  his  conscience, 
it  was  impossible  he  should  regard  me  with  peaceful 
eyes,  however  much  he  might  desire  to  be  friendly  with 
me. 

I  found  him  busy,  as  usual,  for  he  was  one  of  the  most 
diligent  men  I  have  ever  known.  But  his  face  was 
gloomy,  and  I  thought  or  fancied  that  the  old  scorn  had 
begun  once  more  to  usurp  the  expression  of  it  Young 
Tom  was  not  in  the  shop. 


THE   DEVIL    IN    THE   VICAR.  415 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  saw  you,  now,  Thomas." 

"  I  can  hardly  wonder  at  that,"  he  returned,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  do  me  justice;  but  his  eyes  dropped,  and 
he  resumed  his  work,  and  said  no  more.  I  thought  it 
better  to  make  no  reference  to  the  past  even  by  assuring 
him  that  it  was  not  from  resentment  that  I  had  been  a 
stranger. 

"How  is  Tom?"  I  asked. 

"  Well  enough,"  he  returned.  Then,  with  a  smile  of 
peevishness  not  unmingled  with  contempt,  he  added : 
"  He 's  getting  too  uppish  for  me.  I  don't  think  the 
Latin  agrees  with  him." 

I  could  not  help  suspecting  at  once  how  the  matter 
stood — namely,  that  the  father,  unhappy  in  his  conduct 
to  his  daughter,  and  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  to  do 
right  with  regard  to  her,  had  been  behaving  captious'y 
and  unjustly  to  his  son,  and  so  had  rendered  himself 
more  miserable  than  ever. 

•'  Perhaps  he  finds  it  too  much  for  him  without  me," 
I  said,  evasively ;  "  but  I  called  to-day  partly  to  inform 
him  that  I  am  quite  ready  now  to  recommence  our  read- 
ings together ;  after  which  I  hope  you  will  find  the  Latin 
agree  with  him  better." 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  him  alone,  sir — 1  mean,  take 
no  more  trouble  about  him.  You  see  I  can't  do  as  you 
want  me  ;  I  wasn't  made  to  go  another  man's  way ;  and 
so  i.  's  very  hard — more  than  I  can  bear — to  be  under 
so  much  obligation  to  you." 

"  But  you  mistake  me  altogether,  Thomas.  It  is  for 
the  lad's  own  sake  that  I  want  to  go  on  reading  with  him, 


4l6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

And  you  won't  interfere  between  him  and  any  use  I  can 
be  of  to  him.  I  assure  you,  to  have  you  go  my  way  in- 
stead of  your  own  is  the  last  thing  I  could  wish,  though 
I  confess  I  do  wish  very  much  that  you  would  choose 
the  right  way  for  your  own  way." 

He  made  me  no  answer,  but  maintained  a  sullen  silence. 

"  Thomas,"  I  said  at  length,  "  I  had  thought  you  were 
breaking  every  bond  of  Satan  that  withheld  you  from 
entering  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;  but  I  fear  he  has 
strengthened  his  bands  and  holds  you  now  as  much  a 
captive  as  ever.  So  it  is  not  even  yoiu:  own  way  you  are 
walking  in,  but  his." 

"  It 's  no  use  your  trying  to  frighten  me.  I  don't 
believe  in  the  devil." 

"  It  is  God  I  want  you  to  believe  in.  And  I  am  not 
going  to  dispute  with  you  now  about  whether  there  is  a 
devil  or  not.  In  a  matter  of  life  and  death  we  have  no 
time  for  settling  every  disputed  point" 

"  Life  or  death  !     What  do  you  mean  1" 

"I  mean  that  whether  you  believe  there  is  a  devil 
or  not,  you  kno^a  there  is  an  evil  power  in  your  mind 
dragging  you  down.  I  am  not  speaking  in  generals ;  I 
mean  nota,  and  you  know  as  to  what  I  mean  it.  And 
if  you  yield  to  it,  that  evil  power,  whatever  may  be  your 
theory  about  it,  will  drag  you  down  to  death.  It  is  a 
matter  of  life  or  death,  I  repeat,  not  of  theory  about 
the  devil" 

"  Well,  I  always  did  say,  that  if  you  once  give  a  priest 
an  inch  he  '11  take  an  ell ;  and  I  am  sorry  I  forgot  it  for 
once." 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THE    VICAR.  4I7 

Having  said  this,  he  shut  up  his  mouth  in  a  manner  that 
indicated  plainly  enough  he  would  not  open  it  again  foi 
some  time.  This,  more  than  his  speech,  irritated  me,  and 
with  a  mere  "  good  morning,"  I  walked  out  of  the  shoj). 

No  sooner  was  I  in  the  open  air  than  I  knew  that  I 
too,  I  as  well  as  poor  Thomas  Weir,  was  under  a  spell ; 
knew  that  I  had  gone  to  him  before  I  had  recovered 
sufficiently  from  the  mingled  disappointment  and  morti- 
fication of  my  interview  with  Miss  Oldcastle  ;  that  while 
I  spoke  to  him  I  was  not  speaking  with  a  whole  heart  j 
that  I  had  been  discharging  a  duty  as  if  I  had  been  dis- 
charging a  musket ;  that,  althv;uph  I  had  spoken  the  truth, 
I  had  spoken  it  ungraciously  and  selfishly. 

I  could  not  bear  it.  I  turned  instantly  and  went  back 
into  the  shop. 

"  Thomas,  my  friend,"  I  said,  holding  out  my  hand, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  wrong.  I  spoke  to  you  as 
I  ought  not.  I  was  troubled  in  my  own  mind,  and  that 
made  me  lose  my  temper  and  be  rude  to  you,  who  are 
far  more  troubled  than  I  am.     Forgive  me  !" 

He  did  not  take  my  hand  at  first,  but  stared  at  me  as 
if,  not  comprehending  me,  he  supposed  that  I  was  back- 
ing up  what  1  had  said  last  with  more  of  the  same  sort. 
But  by  the  time  I  had  finished  he  saw  what  I  meant ;  his 
countenance  altered  and  looked  as  if  the  evil  spirit  were 
about  to  depart  from  him ;  he  held  out  his  hand,  gave 
mine  a  great  grasp,  drvtpped  his  head,  went  on  witli  his 
work,  and  said  never  a  v/ord. 

I  went  out  of  the  shop  once  moi-e,  but  in  a  greatly 
altered  mood. 

2  D 


4l8  ANNAI.S    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

On  the  way  home,  I  tried  to  find  out  how  it  was  that 
I  had  that  morning  failed  so  signally.  I  had  Htil* 
virtue  in  keeping  my  temper,  because  it  was  naturally 
very  even;  therefore  I  had  the  more  shame  in  losing 
it.  I  had  borne  all  my  uneasiness  about  Miss  Oldcastle 
without,  as  far  as  I  knew,  transgressing  in  this  fashion 
till  this  very  morning.  Were  great  sorrows  less  hurtful 
to  the  temper  than  small  disappointments  1  Yes,  surely. 
But  Shakespeare  represents  Brutus,  after  hearing  of  the 
sudden  death  of  his  wife,  as  losing  his  temper  with 
Cassitis  to  a  degree  that  bewildered  the  latter,  who  said 
he  did  not  know  that  Brutus  could  have  been  so  angry. 
Is  this  consistent  with  the  character  of  the  stately-minded 
Brutus^  or  with  the  dignity  of  sorrow  1  It  is.  For  the 
loss  of  his  wife  alone  would  have  made  him  only  less 
irritable ;  but  the  whole  weight  of  an  army,  with  its 
distracting  cares  and  conflicting  interests,  pressed  upon 
him ;  and  the  battle  of  an  empire  was  to  be  fought  at 
daybreak,  so  that  he  could  not  be  alone  with  his  grief. 
B'^tween  the  silence  of  death  in  his  mind,  and  the  roar 
of  hfe  in  his  brain,  fije  became  Irrita'ble. 

Looking  yet  deeper  into  it,  I  found  that  till  this 
morning  I  had  experienced  no  personal  mortification 
with  respect  to  Miss  Oldcastle.  It  was  not  the  mere 
disappointment  of  having  no  more  talk  with  her,  for  the 
sight  of  her  was  a  blessing  I  had  not  in  the  least  expected, 
that  had  worked  upon  me,  but  the  fact  that  she  had 
repelled  or  seemed  to  repel  me.  And  thus  I  found  that 
self  was  at  the  root  of  the  wrong  I  had  done  to  one  over 
whose  mental  condition,  especially  while  I  was  telling 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THE    VICAR.  4I9 

)dm  the  unwelcome  truth,  I  ought  to  have  bten  as  tender 
as  a  mother  over  her  wounded  child.  I  could  not  say 
that  it  was  wrong  to  feel  disappointed  or  even  mortified ; 
but  something  was  wrong  when  one  whose  especial  busi- 
ness it  was  to  serve  his  people  in  the  name  of  Him  who 
was  full  of  grace  and  truth,  made  them  suffer  because  of 
liis  own  inward  pain. 

No  sooner  had  I  settled  this  in  my  mind  than  my 
trouble  returned  with  a  sudden  pang.  Had  I  actually 
seen  her  that  morning,  and  spoken  to  her,  and  left  her 
with  a  pain  in  my  heart  ?  What  if  that  face  of  hers  was 
doomed  ever  to  bring  with  it  such  a  pain — to  be  ever 
to  me  no  more  than  a  lovely  vision  radiating  grief?  If 
so,  I  would  endure  in  silence  and  as  patiently  as  I  could, 
trying  to  make  up  for  the  lack  of  brightness  in  my  own 
fate  by  causing  more  brightness  in  the  fate  of  others.  I 
would  at  least  keep  on  trying  to  do  my  work. 

That  moment  I  felt  a  little  hand  poke  itself  into  mine. 
I  looked  down,  and  there  was  Gerard  Weir  looking  up 
in  my  face.  I  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  children 
coming  out  of  school,  for  it  was  Saturday,  and  a  half- 
hohday.  He  smiled  in  my  face,  and  I  hope  I  smiled 
in  his ;  and  so,  hand  in  hand,  we  went  on  to  the  vicar- 
age, where  I  gave  him  up  to  my  sister.  But  I  cannot 
convey  to  my  reader  any  notion  of  the  quietness  that 
entered  my  heart  with  the  grasp  of  that  childish  hand. 
I  think  it  was  the  faith  of  the  boy  in  me  that  comforted 
me,  but  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  words  of  ovr 
Lord  about  receiving  a  child  in  His  name,  and  so  re 
ceiving  Him.     By  the  time  wo  reached  the  vicarage  m\ 


420  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

heart  was  very  quiet  As  the  Uttle  child  held  by  niy 
hand,  so  I  seemed  to  be  holding  by  God's  hand.  And 
a  sense  of  heart-security,  as  well  as  soul-safety,  awoke 
in  me ;  and  I  said  to  myself, — Surely  He  will  take  care  of 
my  heart  as  well  as  of  my  mind  and  my  conscience.  For 
one  blessed  moment  I  seemed  to  be  at  the  very  centre 
of  things,  looking  out  quietly  upon  my  own  troublctl 
emotions  as  upon  something  outside  of  me — apart  from 
me,  even  as  one  from  the  firm  rock  may  look  abroad 
upon  the  vexed  sea.  And  I  thought  I  then  knew  some- 
thing of  what  the  apostle  meant  when  he  said,  "  Your 
life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God."  I  knew  that  there  was 
a  deeper  self  than  that  which  was  thus  troubled. 

I  had  not  had  my  usual  ramble  this  morning,  and  was 
othenvise  ill  prepared  for  the  Sunday.  So  I  went  early 
into  the  church  ;  but  finding  that  the  sexton's  wife  had 
not  yet  finished  lighting  the  stove,  I  sat  down  by  my 
own  fire  in  the  vestry. 

Suppose  I  am  sitting  there  now  while  I  say  one  word 
for  our  congregations  in  winter.  I  was  very  particular 
in  having  the  church  well  warmed  before  Sunday.  I 
think  some  parsons  must  neglect  seeing  after  this  matter 
on  principle,  because  warmth  may  make  a  wear}'  crea- 
ture go  to  sleep  here  and  there  about  the  place :  as  if 
any  healing  doctrine  could  enter  the  soul  while  it  is  on 
the  rack  of  the  frost.  The  clergy  should  see — for  it  is 
their  business — that  their  people  have  no  occasion  to 
think  of  their  bodies  at  all  while  they  are  in  church« 
They  have  enough  ado  to  think  of  the  truth.  When 
our  Lord  was  feeding  even  their  bodies,  He  made  them 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THE    VICAR.  421 

all  sit  down  on  the  grass.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  there 
was  much  grass  in  the  place — a  rare  thing  I  should  think 
in  those  countries — and  therefore,  perhaps,  it  was  chosen 
by  Him  for  their  comfort  in  feeding  their  souls  and 
bodies  both.  If  I  may  judge  from  experiences  of  my 
own,  one  of  the  reasons  why  some  churches  are  of  all 
places  the  least  likely  for  anything  good  to  be  found  in, 
is,  that  they  are  as  wretchedly  cold  to  the  body  as  they 
are  to  the  soul — too  cold  every  way  for  anything  to  grow 
in  them.  Edelweiss^  "  Noble-white " — as  they  call  a 
plant  growing  under  the  snow  on  some  of  the  Alps — 
could  not  survive  the  winter  in  such  churches.  There  is 
small  welcome  in  a  cold  house.  And  the  clergyman, 
who  is  the  steward,  should  look  to  it.  It  is  for  him  to 
give  his  Master's  friends  a  welcome  to  his  Master's 
house — for  the  welcome  of  a  servant  is  precious,  and 
now-a-days  very  rave. 

And  now  Mrs  Stone  must  have  finished.  I  go  into 
the  old  church  which  looks  as  if  it  were  quietly  waiting 
for  its  people.  No.  She  has  not  done  yet.  Never 
mind. — How  full  of  meaning  the  vaulted  roof  looks  !  as 
if,  having  gathered  a  soul  of  its  own  out  of  the  genera- 
tions that  have  worshipped  here  for  so  long,  it  had  feel- 
ing enough  to  grow  hungry  for  a  psalm  before  the  end 
of  the  week. 

Some  such  half-foolish  fancy  was  now  passing  through 
my  tranquillized  mind  or  rather  heart — for  the  mind 
would  have  rejected  it  at  once — when  to  my — what  shall 
I  call  it  % — not  amazement,  for  the  delight  was  too  strong 
for  amazement — the  old  organ  woke  up  and  began  to 


422  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

think  aloud.  As  if  it  had  been  brooding  over  it  all  the 
week  in  the  wonderful  convolutions  of  its  wooden  brain, 
it  began  to  sigh  out  the  Agims  Dei  of  Mozart's  twelfth 
mass  upon  the  air  of  the  still  church,  which  lay  swept 
and  garnished  for  the  Sunday. — How  could  it  be?  I 
know  now;  and  I  guessed  then;  and  my  guess  was 
right ;  and  my  reader  must  be  content  to  guess  too.  I 
took  no  step  to  verify  my  conjecture,  for  I  felt  that  I 
was  upon  my  honour,  but  sat  in  one  of  the  pews  and 
listened,  till  the  old  organ  sobbed  itself  into  silence. 
Then  I  heard  the  steps  of  the  sexton's  wife  vanish  from 
the  church,  heard  her  lock  the  door,  and  knew  that  1 
was  alone  in  the  ancient  pile,  with  the  twilight  growing 
thick  about  me,  and  felt  like  Sir  Galahad,  when,  after 
the  "  rolling  organ-harmony,"  he  heard  "  wings  flutter, 
voices  hover  clear."  In  a  moment  the  mood  changed ; 
and  I  was  sorry,  not  that  the  dear  organ  was  dead  for 
the  night,  but  actually  felt  gently-mournful  that  the  won- 
derful old  thing  never  had  and  never  could  have  a  con- 
scious life  of  its  own.  So  strangely  does  the  passion — 
which  I  had  not  invented,  reader,  whoever  thou  art  that 
thinkest  love  and  a  church  do  not  well  harmonize — so 
strangely,  I  say,  full  to  overflowing  of  its  own  vitality, 
does  it  radiate  life,  that  it  would  even  of  its  own  super- 
abundance quicken  into  blessed  consciousness  the  inani- 
mate objects  around  it,  thinking  what  they  would  feel 
had  they  a  consciousness  correspondent  to  their  form, 
were  their  faculties  moved  from  within  themselves  in- 
stead of  from  the  will  and  operation  of  humanity. 

I  lingered  on  long  in  the  dark  church,  as  my  readei 


THE    DEVIL    IN    THE   VICAR.  423 


knows  I  had  done  often  before.  Nor  did  I  mo\e  from 
*he  seat  I  had  first  taken  till  I  left  the  sacred  building. 
And  there  I  made  my  sermon  for  the  next  morning. 
And  herewith  I  impart  it  to  my  reader.  But  he  need 
not  be  afraid  of  another  such  as  I  have  already  given 
him,  for  I  impart  it  only  in  its  original  germ,  its  concen- 
trated essence  of  sermon — these  four  verses : 

Had  I  the  grace  to  win  the  grace 
Of  some  old  man  complete  in  lor^ 

My  face  would  worship  at  his  face, 
Like  childhood  seated  on  the  floor. 

Had  I  the  grace  to  win  the  grace 

Of  childhood,  loving  shy,  apart, 
The  child  should  find  a  nearer  pl-ict;. 

And  teach  me  resting  on  my  heart* 

Had  I  the  ?rnce  to  win  tl>p  tjrac*' 

Of  maiden  living  all  above, 
My  soul  would  trample  down  the  base^ 

That  she  might  have  a  man  to  love. 

A  grace  I  have  no  grace  to  win 
Knocks  now  at  my  half-open  door  t 

Ah,  Lord  of  glory,  come  thou  in, 
Thy  grace  divine  is  all  and  more. 

This  was  what  I  made  for  myself  I  told  my  people 
that  God  had  created  all  our  worships,  reverences,  ten- 
dernesses, loves.  That  they  had  come  out  of  His 
heart,  and  He  had  made  them  in  us  because  they  were 
in  Him  first.  That  otherwise  He  would  not  have  cared 
to  make  them.  That  all  that  we  could  imagine  of  the 
wise,  the  lovely,  the  beautiful,  was  in  Him,  only  in- 
finitely more  of  them  than  we  could  not  merely  iraagine. 


424  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

but  understand,  even  if  He  did  all  He  could  to  explain 
them  to  us,  to  make  us  understand  them.  That  in  Hira 
was  all  the  wise  teaching  of  the  best  man  ever  known  in 
the  world  and  more ;  all  the  grace  and  gentleness  and 
truth  of  thejDCSt  child  and  more;  all  the  tenderness  and 
devotion  of  the*  truest  type  of  womankind  and  more ; 
for  there  is  a  love  that  passeth  the  love  of  woman,  not 
the  love  of  Jonathan  to  David,  though  David  said  so : 
but  the  love  of  God  to  the  men  and  women  whom  He 
has  made.  Therefore,  we  must  be  all  God's;  and  all 
our  aspirations,  all  our  worships,  all  our  houours,  all  oui 
loves,  must  ««ntre  in  Him,  the  Be&tr 


■\ 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AN    ANGEL    UNAWARES. 

EELING  rather  more  than  the  usual  reaction 
so  well-known  to  clergymen  after  the  con- 
centrated duties  of  the  Sunday,  I  resolved 
on  Monday  to  have  the  long  country  walk  I 
had  been  disappointed  of  on  the  Saturday  previous.  It 
was  such  a  day  as  it  seems  impossible  to  describe  except 
in  negatives.  It  was  not  stormy,  it  was  not  rainy,  it  was 
not  sunshiny,  it  was  not  snowy,  it  was  not  frosty,  it  was 
not  foggy,  it  was  not  clear,  it  was  nothing  but  cloudy 
and  quiet  and  cold  and  generally  ungenial,  with  just  a 
puff  of  wind  now  and  then  to  give  an  assertfon  to  its 
ungeniality.  I  should  not  in  the  least  have  cared  to  tell 
what  sort  the  day  was,  had  it  not  been  an  exact  repre- 
sentation of  my  own  mind.  It  was  not  the  day  that 
made  me  such  as  itself.  The  weather  could  always 
easily  influence  the  surface  of  my  mind,  my  external 
mood,  but  it  could  never  go  much  further.     The  small- 


426  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

est  pleasure  would  break  through  the  conditions  that 
merely  came  of  such  a  day.  But  this  morning  my  whole 
mind  and  heart  seemed  like  the  day.  The  summer  was 
thousands  of  miles  off  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe. 
Ethelwyn,  up  at  the  old  house  there  across  the  river, 
seemed  millions  of  miles  away.  The  summer  might 
come  back ;  she  never  would  come  nearer :  it  was 
absurd  to  expect  it  For  in  such  moods  stupidity  con- 
stantly arrogates  to  itself  the  qualities  and  claims  of 
insight  In  fact,  it  passes  itself  off  for  common  sense, 
making  the  most  dreary  ever  appear  the  most  reason- 
able. In  such  moods  a  man  might  almost  be  persuaded 
that  it  was  ridiculous  to  expect  any  such  poetic  absurdity 
as  the  summer,  with  its  diamond  mornings  and  its  opal 
evenings,  ever  to  come  again ;  nay,  to  think  that  it  ever 
had  had  any  existence  except  in  the  fancies  of  the  human 
heart — one  of  its  castles  in  the  air.  The  whole  of  life 
seemed  faint  and  foggy,  with  no  red  in  it  anywhere ;  and 
when  I  glanced  at  my  present  relations  in  Marshmal- 
lows,  I  could  not  help  finding,  several  circumstances  to 
give  some  appearance  of  justice  to  this  appearance  of 
things.  I  seemed  to  myself  to  have  done  no  good.  I 
had  driven  Catherine  Weir  to  the  verge  of  suicide,  while 
at  the  sanie  time  I  could  not  restrain  her  from  the  con« 
templation  of  some  dire  revenge.  I  had  lost  the  man 
upon  whom  I  had  most  reckoned  as  a  seal  of  my  minis* 
try,  namely,  Thomas  Weir.  True  there  was  Old  Rogers ; 
but  Old  Rogers  was  just  as  good  before  I  found  him. 
I  could  not  dream  of  having  made  him  any  better.  And 
so  I  went  on  brooding  over  all  the  disappointing  por- 


AN    ANGEL    UNAWARES.  427 

tions  of  my  labour,  all  the  time  thinking  about  myself, 
instead  of  God  and  the  work  that  lay  for  me  to  do  in 
the  days  to  come. 

"  Nobody,"  I  said,  "  but  Old  Rogers  understands  me. 
Nobody  would  care,  as  far  as  my  teaching  goes,  if  an- 
other man  took  my  place  from  next  Sunday  forward. 
And  for  Miss  Oldcastle,  her  playing  the  Agnus  Dei  on 
Saturday  afternoon,  even  if  she  intended  that  I  should 
hear  it,  could  only  indicate  at  most  that  she  knew  how 
she  had  behaved  to  me  in  the  morning,  and  thought  she 
had  gone  too  far  and  been  unkind,  or  perhaps  was  afraid 
lest  she  should  be  accountable  for  any  failure  I  might 
make  in  my  Sunday  duties,  and  therefore  felt  bound  to 
do  something  to  restore  my  equanimity." 

Choosing,  though  without  consciously  intending  to  do 
so,  the  dreariest  path  to  be  found,  1  wandered  up  the 
side  of  the  slow  black  river,  with  the  sentinel  pollards 
looking  at  themselves  in  its  gloomy  mirror,  just  as  I  was 
looking  at  myself  in  the  mirror  of  my  circumstances. 
They  leaned  in  all  directions,  irregular  as  the  headstones 
in  an  ancient  churchyard.  In  the  summer  they  looked 
like  explosions  of  green  leaves  at  the  best ;  now  they 
looked  like  the  burnt-out  cases  of  the  summer's  fire- 
works. How  different,  too,  was  the  river  from  the  time 
when  a  whole  fleet  of  shining  white  lilies  lay  anchored 
among  their  own  broad  green  leaves  upon  its  clear 
waters,  filled  with  sunlight  in  every  pore,  as  they  them- 
selves would  fill  the  pores  of  a  million-caverned  sponge  ! 
But  I  could  not  even  recall  the  past  summer  as  beau- 
tifuL    I  seemed  to  care  for  nothing.    The  first  miserable 


428  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

afternoon  at  Marshmallows  looked  now  as  if  it  had  been 
the  whole  of  my  coming  relation  to  the  place  seen 
through  a  reversed  telescope.  And  here  I  was  in  it 
now. 

The  walk  along  the  side  was  tolerably  dry,  although 
the  river  was  bank-full.  But  when  I  came  to  the  bridge 
I  wanted  to  cross — z.  wooden  one — I  found  that  the 
approach  to  it  had  been  partly  undermined  and  carried 
away,  for  here  the  river  had  overflowed  its  banks  in  one 
of  the  late  storms ;  and  all  about  the  place  was  still  very 
wet  and  swampy.  I  could  therefore  get  no  farther  in 
my  gloomy  walk,  and  so  turned  back  upon  my  steps. 
Scarcely  had  I  done  so,  when  I  saw  a  man  coming 
hastily  towards  me  from  far  upon  the  straight  line  of  the 
river  walk.  I  could  not  mistake  him  at  any  distance. 
It  was  Old  Rogers.  I  felt  both  ashamed  and  comforted 
when  I  recognized  him. 

"  Well,  Old  Rogers,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  he  came  within 
hail,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully,  "  you  cannot  get  much 
farther  this  way — without  wading  a  bit,  at  least" 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  no  farther  now,  sir.  I  came  to 
find  you." 

"  Nothing  amiss,  I  hope  ? " 

"  Nothing  as  I  knows  on,  sir.  I  only  wanted  to  have 
a  little  chat  with  you.  I  told  master  I  wanted  to  leave 
for  an  hour  or  so.     He  alius  lets  me  do  just  as  I  like." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  where  to  find  mel" 

"  I  saw  you  come  this  way.  You  passed  me  right  on 
the  bridge,  and  didn't  see  me,  sir.  So  says  I  to  myself, 
*  Old  Rogers,  summat  's  amiss  wi'  parson  to-day.     He 


AN    ANGEL    UNAWARES.  429 

never  went  by  me  like  that  afore.  This  won't  do.  You 
just  go  and  see.'  So  I  went  home  and  told  master,  and 
here  I  be,  sir.  And  I  hope  you're  noways  offended 
(vith  the  liberty  of  me." 

"  Did  I  really  pass  you  on  the  bridge?"  I  said,  unable 
to  understand  it. 

"  That  you  did,  sir.  I  knowed  parson  must  be  a 
goodish  bit  in  his  own  in'ards  afore  he  would  do  that." 

"  I  needn't  tell  you  I  didn't  see  you.  Old  Rogers." 

"  I  could  tell  you  that,  sir.  I  hope  there 's  nothing 
gone  main  wrong,  sir.     Miss  is  well,  sir,  I  hope  1 " 

"  Quite  well,  I  thank  you.  No,  my  dear  fellow,  no- 
thing 's  gone  main  wrong,  as  you  say.  Some  of  my  run- 
ning tackle  got  jammed  a  bit,  that 's  all.  I  'm  a  little 
out  of  spirits,  I  believe." 

"  Well,  sir,  don't  you  be  afeard  I  'm  going  to  be 
troublesome.  Don't  think  I  want  to  get  aboard  your 
ship,  except  you  fling  me  a  rope.  There 's  a  many  things 
you  mun  ha'  to  think  about  that  an  ignorant  man  like 
me  couldn't  take  up  if  you  was  to  let  *em  drop.  And 
being  a  gentleman,  I  do  believe,  makes  the  matter  worse 
betuxt  us.  And  there 's  many  a  thing  that  no  man  can 
go  talkin'  about  to  any  but  only  the  Lord  himself.  Still 
you  can't  help  us  poor  folks  seeing  when  there 's  summat 
amiss,  and  we  can't  help  havin'  our  own  thoughts  any 
more  than  the  sailor's  jackdaw  that  couldn't  speak. 
And  sometimes  we  may  be  nearer  the  mark  than  you 
would  suppose,  for  God  has  made  us  all  of  one  blood, 
you  know." 

"  What  au  you  driving  at,  Old  Rogers?"  I  said  with 


430  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

a  smile,  which  was  none  the  less  true  that  I  suspected 
he  had  read  some  of  the  worst  trouble  of  my  heart.  For 
why  should  I  mind  an  honourable  man  like  him  know- 
ing what  oppressed  me,  though,  as  things  wero,  I  cer- 
tainly should  not,  as  he  said,  choose  to  tell  it  to  any  but 
one? 

"  I  don't  want  to  say  what  I  was  driving  at,  if  it  was 
anything  but  this — that  I  want,  to  put  to  the  clumsy 
hand  of  a  rough  old  tar,  with  a  heart  as  soft  as  the  pitch 
that  makes  his  hand  hard — to  trim  your  sails  a  bit,  sir, 
and  help  you  to  lie  a  point  closer  to  the  wind.  You  're 
not  just  close-hauled,  sir." 

'*  Say  on.  Old  Rogers.  I  understand  you,  and  I  will 
listen  with  all  my  heart,  for  you  have  a  good  right  to 
speak." 

And  Old  Rogers  spoke  thus  : — 

"  Oncet  upon  a  time,  1  made  a  voyage  in  a  merchant 
barque.  We  were  becalmed  in  the  South  Seas.  And 
weary  work  it  wur,  a  doin'  of  nothin'  from  day  to  day. 
But  when  the  water  began  to  come  up  thick  from  the 
bottom  of  the  water-casks,  it  was  wearier  a  deal.  Then 
a  thick  fog  came  on,  as  white  as  snow  a'most,  and  we 
couldn't  see  more  than  a  few  yards  ahead  or  on  any  side 
of  us.  But  the  fog  didn't  keep  the  heat  off;  it  only  made 
it  worse,  and  the  water  was  fast  going  done.  The  short 
allowance  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  and  the  men,  some 
of  them,  were  half-mad  with  thirst,  and  began  to  look 
bad  at  one  another.  I  kept  up  my  heart  by  looking 
aliead  inside  me.  For  days  and  days  the  fog  hung  about 
us  as  if  the  air  had  been  made  o'  flocks  o'  wool     The 


AN    ANGEL    UNAWARES.  43I 

captain  took  to  his  berth,  and  several  of  the  crew  to 
their  hammocks,  for  it  was  just  as  hot  on  deck  as  any- 
where else.  The  mate  lay  on  a  sparesail  on  the  quarter- 
vleck,  groaning.  I  had  a  strong  suspicion  that  the 
schooner  was  drifting,  and  hove  the  lead  again  and 
again,  but  could  find  no  bottom.  Some  of  the  men  got 
hold  of  the  spirits,  and  that  didn't  quench  their  thirst 
It  drove  them  clean  mad.  I  had  to  knock  one  of  them 
down  myself  with  a  capstan  bar,  for  he  ran  at  the  mate 
with  his  knife.  At  last  I  began  to  lose  all  hope.  And 
still  I  was  sure  the  schooner  was  slowly  drifting.  My 
head  was  like  to  burst,  and  my  tongue  was  like  a  lump 
of  holystone  in  my  mouth.  Well,  one  morning,  I  had 
just,  as  I  thought,  lain  down  on  the  deck  to  breathe  my 
last,  hoping  I  should  die  before  1  wont  quite  mad  with 
thirst,  when  all  at  once  the  fog  lifted,  like  the  foot  of  a 
sail.  I  sprung  to  my  feet.  There  was  the  blue  sky 
overhead ;  but  the  terrible  burning  sun  was  there,  h 
moment  more  and  a  light  air  blew  on  my  cheek,  and, 
turnuig  my  face  to  it  as  if  it  had  been  the  very  breath  ol 
God,  there  was  an  island  within  half  a  mile,  and  I  saw 
the  shine  of  water  on  the  face  of  a  rock  on  the  shore. 
I  cried  out,  '  Land  on  the  weather-quarter !  Water  in 
sight ! '  In  a  moment  more  a  boat  was  lowered,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  boat's  crew,  of  which  I  was  one,  were 
lying,  clothes  and  all,  in  a  little  stream  that  came  down 
from  the  hills  above. — There,  Mr  Walton !  that 's  what  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you." 

This  is  as  near  the  story  of  my  old  friend  as  my 
limited  knowledge  of  sea  affairs  allows  me  to  report  it 


432  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"I  understand  you  quite,  Old  Rogers,  and  I  thank 
you  heartily,"  I  said. 

"  No  doubt,"  resumed  he,  "  King  Solomon  was  quite 
right,  as  he  always  was,  I  suppose,  in  what  he  said,  for 
his  wisdom  mun  ha'  laid  mostly  in  the  tongue — right,  I 
say,  when  he  said,  '  Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow ;  for 
tnou  knowest  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth ; '  but  I 
can't  help  thinking  there 's  another  side  to  it.  I  think 
it  would  be  as  good  advice  to  a  man  on  the  other  tack, 
whose  boasting  lay  far  to  windward,  and  he  close  on  a 
lee-shore  wi'  breakers — it  wouldn't  be  amiss  to  say  to 
him,  *  Don't  strike  your  colours  to  the  morrow ;  for  thou 
knowest  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.'  There's  just 
as  many  good  days  as  bad  ones ;  as  much  fair  weather 
as  foul  in  the  days  to  come.  And  if  a  man  keeps  up 
heart,  he's  all  the  better  for  that,  and  none  the  worse 
when  the  evil  day  does  come.  But,  God  forgive  me  l 
I  'm  talking  like  a  heathen.  As  if  there  was  any  chance 
about  what  the  days  would  bring  forth.  No,  my  lad," 
said  the  old  sailor,  assuming  the  dignity  of  his  superior 
years  under  the  inspiration  of  the  truth,  "  boast  nor  trust 
nor  hope  in  the  morrow.  Boast  and  trust  and  hope  in 
God,  for  thou  shalt  yet  praise  Him,  who  is  the  health  of 
thy  countenance  and  thy  God." 

I  could  but  hold  out  my  hand.  I  had  nothing  to  say,. 
For  he  had  spoken  to  me  as  an  angel  of  God. 

The  old  man  was  silent  for  some  moments  :  his  emo- 
tion needed  time  to  still  itself  again.  Nor  did  he  return 
to  the  subject  He  held  out  his  hand  once  more,  say- 
ing— 


AN    ANGEL    UNAWARES.  433 

"  Good  day,  sir.     I  must  go  back  to  my  work." 

"  I  will  go  back  with  you,"  I  returned. 

And  so  we  walked  back  side  by  side  to  the  village, 
but  not  a  word  did  we  speak  the  one  to  the  other,  till  we 
shook  hands  and  parted  upon  the  bridge,  where  we  had 
first  met.  Old  Rogers  went  to  his  work,  and  I  lingered 
upon  the  bridge.  I  leaned  upon  the  low  parapet,  and 
looked  up  the  stream  as  far  as  the  mists  creeping  about 
the  banks,  and  hovering  in  thinnest  veils  over  the  surface 
of  the  water,  would  permit.  Then  I  turned  and  looked 
down  the  river  crawling  on  to  the  sweep  it  made  out  of 
sight  just  where  Mr  Brownrigg's  farm  began  to  come 
down  to  its  banks.  Then  I  looked  to  the  left,  and 
there  stood  my  old  church,  as  quiet  in  the  dreary  day, 
tliough  not  so  bright,  as  in  the  sunshine  :  even  the  graves 
themselves  must  look  yet  more  "  solemn  sad "  in  a 
wintry  day  like  this,  than  they  look  when  the  sunlight 
that  infolds  them  proclaims  that  God  is  not  the  God  of 
tlie  dead  but  of  the  living.  One  of  the  great  battles 
that  we  have  to  fight  in  this  world — for  twenty  great 
battles  have  to  be  fought  all  at  once  and  in  one — is  the 
battle  with  appearances.  I  turned  me  to  the  right,  and 
tliere  once  more  I  saw,  as  on  that  first  afternoon,  the 
weathercock  that  watched  the  winds  over  the  stables  at 
Oldcastle  Hall.  It  had  caught  just  one  glimpse  of  the 
sun  through  some  rent  in  the  vapours,  and  flung  it  across 
to  me,  ere  it  vanished  again  amid  the  general  dinginess 
of  the  hour, 


f  « 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

TWO   PARISHIONERS. 

HAVE  said,  near  the  beginning  of  my  storjr, 
that  my  parish  was  a  large  one :  how  is  it 
that  I  have  mentioned  but  one  of  the  great 
families  in  it,  and  have  indeed  confined  my 
recollections  entirely  to  the  village  and  its  immediate 
neighbourhood  1  Will  my  reader  have  patience  while  I 
explain  this  to  him  a  little?  First,  as  he  may  have 
observed,  my  personal  attraction  is  towards  the  poor 
rather  than  the  ricli.  I  was  made  so.  I  can  generally 
get  nearer  the  poor  than  the  rich.  But  I  say  generally, 
for  I  have  known  a  few  rich  people  quite  as  much  to 
my  mind  as  the  best  of  the  poor.  Thereupon,  of  course, 
their  education  would  give  them  the  advantage  with  me 
in  the  possibilities  of  communion.  But  when  the  heart 
is  right,  and  there  is  a  good  stock  of  common  sense  as 
well, — a  gift  predominant,  as  far  as  I  am  aware,  in  no 
one  class  over  another,  education  will  turn  the  scale 


TWO    PARISHIONERS.  435 

very  gently  with  me.  And  then  when  I  reflect  that 
some  of  these  poor  people  would  have  made  noblei 
ladies  and  gentlemen  than  all  but  two  or  three  I  know, 
if  they  had  only  had  the  opportunity,  there  is  a  reaction 
towards  the  poor,  something  like  a  feeling  of  favour 
because  they  have  not  had  fair  play — a  feeling  soon 
modified,  though  not  altered,  by  the  reflection  that  they 
are  such  because  God  who  loves  them  better  than  we 
do,  has  so  ordered  their  lot,  and  by  the  recollection  that 
not  only  was  our  Lord  himself  poor,  but  He  said  the 
poor  were  blessed.  And  let  me  just  say  in  passing  that 
1  not  only  believe  it  because  He  said  it,  but  I  believe  it 
because  I  see  that  it  is  so.  I  think  sometimes  that  the 
world  must  have  been  especially  created  for  the  poor, 
and  that  particular  allowances  will  be  made  for  the  rich 
because  they  are  born  into  such  disadvantages,  and  with 
their  wickednesses  and  their  miseries,  their  love  of 
spiritual  dirt  and  meanness,  subserve  the  highest  growth 
and  emancipation  of  the  poor,  that  they  may  inherit 
both  the  earth  and  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

But  I  have  been  once  more  wandering  from  my  sub- 
ject. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  people  in  the  village  Ijnng  close 
to  my  door  attracted  most  of  my  attention  at  first;  of 
which  attention  those  more  immediately  associated  with 
the  village,  as,  for  instance,  the  inhabitants  of  the  Hall, 
came  in  for  a  share,  although  they  did  not  belong  to  the 
same  class. 

Again,  the  houses  of  most  of  the  gentlefolk  lay  con 
siderably  apart  from  the  church  and  from  each  other. 


436  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Many  of  them  went  elsewhere  to  church,  and  I  did  n::.t 
feel  bound  to  visit  those,  for  I  had  enough  to  occupy  me 
without,  and  had  little  chance  of  getting  a  hold  of  them 
to  do  them  good.  Still  there  were  one  or  two  families 
which  I  would  have  visited  oftener,  I  confess,  had  I  been 
more  interested  in  them,  or  had  I  had  a  horse.  There- 
fore, I  ought  to  have  bought  a  horse  sooner  than  I  did. 
Before  this  winter  was  over,  however,  I  did  buy  one, 
partly  to  please  Dr  Duncan,  who  urged  me  to  it  for  the 
sake  of  my  health,  partly  because  I  could  then  do  my 
duty  better,  and  partly,  I  confess,  from  having  been  very 
fond  of  an  old  mare  of  my  father's,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
living,  after  my  mother's  death,  at  a  farm  of  his  in 
B — shire.  Happening  to  come  across  a  gray  mare  very 
much  like  her,  I  bought  her  at  once. 

I  think  it  was  the  very  day  after  the  events  recorded 
in  my  last  chapter  that  I  mounted  her  to  pay  a  visit  to 
two  rich  m-^.iden  ladies,  whose  carriage  stopped  at  the 
Lych-gate  most  Sundays  when  the  weather  was  favour- 
able, but  whom  I  had  called  upon  only  once  since  I 
came  to  the  parish.  I  should  not  have  thought  this  visit 
worth  mentioninir,  except  for  the  conversation  I  had 
with  them,  during  which  a  hint  or  two  were  dropped 
which  had  an  influence  in  colouring  my  thoughts  for 
some  time  after. 

I  was  shown  with  much  ceremony  by  a  butler,  as  old 
apparently  as  his  livery  of  yellow  and  green,  into  the 
presence  o!  ihe  two  ladies,  one  of  whom  sat  in  state 
reading  a  volume  of  the  Spectator.  She  was  very  tall, 
and  as  square  as  the  straight  long-backed  chair  upon 


TWO    PARISHIONERS.  437 

which  she  sat.  A  fat  asthmatic  poodle  lay  at  her  feet 
upon  the  hearth-rug.  The  other,  a  little  lively  gray- 
haired  creature,  who  looked  like  a  most  ancient  girl 
whom  no  power  of  gathering  years  would  ever  make  old. 
was  standing  upon  a  high  chair,  making  love  to  a  demo- 
niacal-looking cockatoo  in  a  gilded  cage.  As  I  entered 
the  room,  the  latter  all  but  jumped  from  her  perch  with 
a  merry  though  wavering  laugh,  and  advanced  to  meet 
me. 

"  Jonathan,  bring  the  cake  and  wine,"  she  cried  to 
the  retreating  servant. 

The  former  rose  with  a  solemn  stiff-backedness,  which 
was  more  amusing  than  dignified,  and  extended  her  hand 
as  I  approached  her,  without  moving  from  her  place. 

"  We  were  afraid,  Mr  Walton,"  said  the  little  lady, 
"  that  you  had  forgotten  we  were  parishioners  of  yours." 

"  That  I  c  ^-uld  hardly  do,"  I  answered,  "  seeing  you 
are  such  regular  attendants  at  church.  But  I  confess  I 
have  given  you  ground  for  your  rebuke.  Miss  Crowther. 
I  bought  a  horse,  however,  the  other  day,  and  this  is 
the  first  use  I  have  put  him  to." 

"  We  're  charmed  to  see  you.  It  is  very  good  of  you 
not  to  forget  such  uninteresting  girls  as  we  are." 

"  You  forget,  Jemima,"  interposed  her  sister,  in  a 
feminine  bass,  "  that  time  is  always  on  the  wing.  I 
should  have  thought  we  were  both  decidedly  middle- 
aged,  though  you  are  the  elder  by  I  will  not  say  how 
many  years." 

"  All  but  ten  years,  Hester.  I  remember  rocking  you 
in  your  cradle  scores  of  times.     But  somehow,  Mr  Wal- 


438  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

ton,  I  can't  help  feeling  as  if  she  were  my  elder  sister. 
She  is  so  learned,  you  see;  and  I  don't  read  anyth'ng 
but  the  newspapers." 

"And  your  Bible,  Jemima.     Do  yourself  justice." 

"  That 's  a  matter  of  course,  sister.  But  this  is  not  the 
way  to  entertain  Mr  Walton." 

"  The  gentlemen  used  to  entertain  the  ladies  when  1 
was  young,  Jemima.  I  do  not  know  how  it  may  have 
been  when  you  were." 

"  Much  the  same,  I  believe,  sister.  But  if  you  look 
at  Mr  Walton,  I  think  you  will  see  that  he  is  pretty  much 
entertained  as  it  is." 

"  I  agree  with  Miss  Hester,"  I  said.  "  It  is  the  duty 
of  gentlemen  to  entertain  ladies.  But  it  is  so  much  the 
kinder  of  ladies  when  they  surpass  their  duty,  and  con- 
descend to  entertain  gentlemen." 

*'  What  can  surpass  duty,  Mr  Walton  1  I  confess  I  do 
not  agree  with  your  doctrines  upon  that  point." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you.  Miss  Hester,"  I 
returned. 

"Why,  Mr  Walton — I  hope  yr,u  will  not  think  me 
rude,  but  it  always  seems  to  me — and  it  has  given  me 
much  pain,  when  I  consider  that  your  congregation  is 
chiefly  composed  of  the  lower  classes,  who  may  be 
greatly  injured  by  such  a  style  of  preaching.  I  must 
say  I  think  so,  Mr  Walton.  Only  perhaps  you  are  one 
of  those  who  think  a  lady's  opinion  on  such  matters  is 
worth  nothing." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  respect  an  opinion  just  as  far  as 
the  lady  or  gentleman  who  holds  it  seems  to  me  qualified 


TWO    PARISHIONERS.  435 

to  have  formed  it  first.     But  you  have  not  yet  told  me 
what  you  think  so  objectionable  in  my  preaching." 

"  You  always  speak  as  if  faith  in  Christ  was  something 
greater  than  duty.     Now  I  think  duty  the  first  thing." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Miss  Crowther.  For  how 
can  I,  or  any  clergyman,  urge  a  man  to  that  which  is 
not  his  duty  1  But  tell  me,  is  not  faith  in  Christ  a  duty  1 
Where  you  have  mistaken  me  is,  that  you  think  I  speak 
of  faith  as  higher  than  duty,  when  indeed  I  speak  o 
faith  as  higher  than  any  of/ier  duty.  It  is  the  highest 
duty  of  man.  I  do  not  say  the  duty  he  always  sees 
clearest,  or  even  sees  at  all.  But  the  fact  is,  that  when 
that  which  is  a  duty  becomes  the  highest  delight  of  a 
man,  the  joy  of  his  very  being,  he  no  more  thinks  or 
needs  to  think  about  it  as  a  duty.  What  would  you 
think  of  the  love  of  a  son  who,  when  an  appeal  was 
made  to  his  affections,  should  say,  '  Oh  yes,  I  love  my 
mother  dearly  :  it  is  my  duty,  of  course  ? ' " 

"  That  sounds  very  plausible,  Mr  Walton ;  but  still  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that  you  preach  faith  and  not  works. 
I  do  not  say  that  you  are  not  to  preach  faith,  of  course ; 
but  you  know  faith  without  works  is  dead." 

"  Now,  really,  Hester,"  interposed  Miss  Jemima,  "  I 
cannot  think  how  it  is,  but,  for  my  part,  I  should  have 
said  that  Mr  Walton  was  constantly  preaching  works. 
He's  always  telling  you  to  do  something  or  other.  I 
know  I  always  come  out  of  the  church  with  something 
on  my  mind;  and  I've  got  to  work  it  off  somehow 
before  I  'm  comfortable." 

And  here  Miss  Jemima  got  up  on  the  chair  again,  and 


440  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

^ , 

began  to  flirt  with  the  cockatoo  once  more,  but  only  in 
silent  signs. 

I  cannot  quite  recall  how  this  part  of  the  conversation 
drew  to  a  close.  But  I  will  tell  a  fact  or  two  about  the 
sisters  which  may  possibly  explain  how  it  was  ihzt  they 
took  up  such  different  notions  of  my  preaching.  The 
elder  scarce  left  the  house,  but  spent  almost  the  whole 
of  her  time  in  reading  small  dingy  books  of  eighteenth 
century  literature.  She  believed  in  no  other;  thought 
Shakespeare  sentimental  where  he  was  not  low,  and 
Bacon  pompous;  Addison  thoroughly  respectable  and 
gentlemanly.  Pope  was  the  great  English  poet,  incom- 
parably before  Milton.  The  "  Essay  on  Man "  con- 
tained the  deepest  wisdom ;  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock " 
the  most  graceful  imagination  to  be  found  in  the  lan- 
guage. The  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  was  pretty,  but  fool- 
ish; while  in  philosophy,  Paley  was  perfect,  especially 
in  his  notion  of  happiness,  which  she  had  he:ird  objected 
to,  and  therefore  warmly  defended.  Somehow  or  other, 
respectability — in  position,  in  morals,  in  religion,  in  con- 
duct— was  everything.  The  consequence  was  that  her 
very  nature  was  old-fashioned,  and  had  nothing  in  it  of 
that  lasting  youth  which  is  the  birthright — so  often  de- 
spised— of  every  immortal  being.  But  I  have  already 
said  more  about  her  than  her  place  in  my  story  justifies. 
Miss  Crowther,  on  the  contrary,  whose  eccentricitiea 
did  not  lie  on  the  side  of  respectability,  had  gone  on 
shocking  the  stiff  proprieties  of  her  younger  sister  till 
she  could  be  shocked  no  more,  and  gave  in  as  to  the 
hopelessness  of  fate.     She  had  had  a  severe  disappoint- 


TWO    PARISHIONERS.  44I 

merit  in  youth,  had  not  only  survived  it,  but  saved  hei 
heart  aUve  out  of  it,  losing  only,  as  far  as  appeared  to 
ihe  eyes  of  her  neighbours  at  least,  any  remnant  of  selfish 
care  about  herself;  and  she  now  spent  the  love  which 
had  before  been  concentrated  upon  one  object,  upon 
every  living  thing  that  came  near  her,  even  to  her  sister's 
sole  favourite,  the  wheezing  poodle.  She  was  very  odd, 
it  must  be  confessed,  with  her  gray  hair,  her  clear  gray 
eye  with  wrinkled  eyelids,  her  light  step,  her  laugh  at 
once  girlish  and  cracked ;  darting  in  and  out  of  the  cot- 
tages, scolding  this  matron  with  a  lurking  smile  in  every 
tone,  hugging  that  baby,  boxing  the  ears  of  the  other 
littk;  tyrant,  passing  this  one's  rent,  and  threatening  that 
other  with  awful  vengeances,  but  it  was  a  very  lovely 
oddity.  Their  property  was  not  large,  and  she  knew 
every  living  thing  on  the  place  down  to  the  dogs  and 
pigs.  And  Miss  Jemima,  as  the  people  always  called 
her,  transferring  the  Miss  Crowther  of  primogeniture  to 
the  younger,  who  kept,  like  King  Henry  IV., — 

"  Her  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical, 
Ne'er  seen  but  wonder'd  at," 

was  the  actual  queen  of  the  neighbourhood;  for,  though 
she  was  the  very  soul  of  kindness,  she  was  determined 
to  have  her  own  way,  and  had  it. 

Although  I  did  not  know  all  this  at  the  time,  such 
were  the  two  ladies  who  held  these  different  opinions 
about  my  preaching ;  the  one  who  did  nothing  but  read 
Messrs  Addison,  Pope,  Paley,  and  Co.,  considering  that 
I  neglected  the  doctrine  of  works  as  the  seal  of  faith, 
and  the  one  who  was  busy  helping  her  neighbours  from 


442  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

morning  to  night,  finding  little  in  my  pr>_'\ching,  except 
incentive  to  benevolence. 

The  next  point  where  my  recollection  can  take  up  the 
conversation,  is  where  Miss  Hester  made  the  following 
further  criticism  on  my  pulpit  labours. 

"  You  are  too  anxious  to  explain  everything,  Mr 
Walton." 

I  pause  in  my  recording,  to  do  my  critic  the  justice  of 
remarking  that  what  she  said  looks  worse  on  paper  than 
it  sounded  from  her  lips ;  for  she  was  a  gentlewoman, 
and  the  tone  has  much  to  do  with  the  impression  made 
by  the  intellectual  contents  of  all  speech. 

*'  Where  can  be  the  use  of  trying  to  make  uneducated 
people  see  the  grounds  of  everything ?"  she  said.  "It 
is  enough  that  this  or  that  is  in  the  Bible." 

"Yes;  but  there  is  just  the  point.  What  is  in  the 
Bible?     Is  it  this  or  that ?" 

"  You  are  their  spiritual  instructor :  tell  them  what  is 
in  the  Bible." 

"  But  you  have  just  been  objecting  to  my  mode  of 
representing  what  is  in  the  Bible." 

"It  will  be  so  much  the  worse,  if  you  add  .ori^iiment 
to  convince  them  of  what  is  incorrect." 

"  I  doubt  that.  Falsehood  will  expose  itself  the  sooner 
that  honest  argument  is  used  to  support  it" 

"  You  cannot  expect  them  to  judge  of  what  you  tell 
them." 

**  The  Bible  urges  upon  us  to  search  and  understand.* 

"  I  grant  that  for  those  whose  business  it  is,  like  your- 
self." 


TWO    PARISHIONERS,  443 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  the  Church  consists  of  a 
few  privileged  to  understand,  and  a  great  many  who  can- 
not understand,  and  therefore  need  not  be  taught?" 
"  I  said  you  had  to  teach  them." 
"  But  to  teach  is  to  make  people  understand," 
'*  I  don't  think  so.     If  you  come  to  that,  how  mucli 
can  the  wisest  of  us  understand  t    You  remember  what 
Pope  says, — 

'  Superior  beings,  when  of  late  they  saw 
A  mortal  man  unfold  all  Nature's  law, 
Admired  such  wisdom  in  an  earthly  shape, 
And  show'd  a  Newton  as  we  show  an  ape '  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  the  passage.  Pope  is  not  my  Bible. 
I  should  call  such  superior  beings  very  inferior  beings 
indeed." 

"  Do  you  call  the  angels  inferior  beings  1 " 

"  Such  angels,  certainly." 

"  He  means  the  good  angels,  of  course." 

"  And  I  say  the  good  angels  could  never  behave  like 
that,  for  contempt  is  one  of  the  lowest  spiritual  condi- 
tions in  which  any  being  can  place  himself.  Our  Lord 
says,  *  Take  heed  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  little 
ones,  for  their  angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my 
Father,  who  is  in  heaven.' " 

"  Now  will  you  even  say  that  you  understand  that 
passage  1 " 

"  Practically,  well  enough ;  just  as  the  poorest  man  of 
my  congregation  may  understand  it,  I  am  not  to  de- 
spise one  of  the  little  ones.  Pope  represents  the  angels 
as  despising  a  Newton  even," 


444  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  And  you  despise  Pope." 

*'  I  hope  not.     I  say  he  was  full  of  despising,  and 
theiefore,  if  for  no  other  reason,  a  small  man." 
"Surely  you  do  not  jest  at  his  bodily  infirmities]" 
"  I  had  forgotten  them  quite.'' 
"  In  every  other  sense  he  was  a  great  man." 
"  I  cannot  allow  it.     He  was  intellectually  a  great 
man,  but  morally  a  small  man." 

*'  Such  refinements  are  not  easily  followed." 
"  I  will  undertake  to  make  the  poorest  woman  in  my 
congregation  understand  that." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  your  friend  Mrs  Oldcastle,  then  1 
It  might  do  her  a  Uttle  good,"  said  Miss  Hester,  now 
becoming,  I  thought,  a  little  spiteful  at  hearing  her 
favourite  treated  so  unceremoniously.  I  found  after- 
wards that  there  was  some  kindness  in  it,  however. 

"  I  should  have  very  little  influence  with  Mrs  Old- 
castle if  I  were  to  make  the  attempt.  But  I  am  not 
called  upon  to  address  my  flock  individually  upon  every 
point  of  character." 

"  I  thought  she  was  an  intimate  friend  of  yours." 
"  Quite  the  contrary.  We  are  scarcely  friendly." 
"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Jemima,  who 
liad  been  silent  during  the  little  controversy  that  her 
sister  and  I  had  been  carrying  on.  "  We  have  been 
quite  misinformed.  The  fact  is,  we  thought  we  might 
have  seen  more  of  you  if  it  had  not  been  for  her.  And 
as  very  few  people  of  her  own  position  in  society  care  to 
visit  her,  we  thought  it  a  pity  she  should  be  your  prin- 
cipal frieni!  in  the  parish." 


TWO    PARISHIONERS.  44i 

"  Why  do  they  not  visit  her  more?" 

"  There  are  strange  stories  about  her,  which  it  is  as 
well  to  leave  alone.  They  are  getting  out  of  date  too. 
But  she  is  not  a  fit  woman  to  be  regarded  as  the  clergy- 
man's friend.  There ! "  said  Miss  Jemima,  as  if  she 
had  wanted  to  relieve  her  bosom  of  a  burden,  and  had 
done  it 

"  I  think,  however,  her  religious  opinions  would  cor- 
respond with  your  own,  Mr  Walton,"  said  Miss  Hester. 

"  Possibly,"  I  answered,  with  indifference ;  "  I  don't 
care  much  about  opinion." 

"  Her  daughter  would  be  a  nice  girl,  I  fancy,  if  she 
weren't  kept  down  by  her  mother.  She  looks  scared, 
poor  thing !  And  they  say  she 's  not  quite — the  thing, 
you  know,"  said  Miss  Jemima. 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Miss  Crowther  1 " 

She  gently  tapped  her  forehead  with  a  forefinger. 

I  laughed.  I  thought  it  was  not  worth  my  while  to 
enter  as  the  champion  of  Miss  Oldcastle's  sanity. 

"  They  are,  and  have  been,  a  strange  family  as  far 
back  as  I  can  remember;  and  my  mother  used  to  say 
the  same.  I  am  glad  she  comes  to  our  church  now. 
You  mustn't  let  her  set  her  cap  at  you,  though,  Mr 
Walton.  It  wouldn't  do  at  all  She's  pretty  enough, 
too!" 

"  Yes,"  I  returned,  "  she  is  rather  pretty.  But  I  don't 
think  she  looks  as  if  she  had  a  cap  to  set  at  anybody." 

I  rose  to  go,  for  I  did  not  relish  any  further  pursuit  of 
the  conversation  in  the  same  direction. 

I  rode  home  slowly,  brooding  on  the  lovely  marvel, 


446  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

that  out  of  such  a  rough  ungracious  stern  as  the  Old- 
castle  family,  should  have  sprung  such  a  delicate,  pale, 
winter-braved  flower,  as  Ethelwyn.  And  I  prayed  that 
I  might  be  honoured  to  rescue  her  from  the  ungenial 
soil  and  atmosphere  to  which  the  machinations  of  her 
mother  threatened  to  confine  her  for  the  rest  of  a  suffer- 
ing life. 


CHAPTER  XXVt 

SATAN  CAST  OUT. 

WAS  within  a  mile  of  the  village,  return- 
ing from  my  visit  to  the  Misses  Crowther, 
when  my  horse,  which  was  walking  slowly 
along  the  soft  side  of  the  road,  lifted  his 
head,  and  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  sound,  which 
he  heard  first,  of  approaching  hoofs.  The  riders  soon 
came  in  sight — Miss  Oldcastle,  Judy,  and  Captain  Ever- 
ard.  Miss  Oldcastle  I  had  never  seen  on  horseback 
before.  Judy  was  on  a  little  white  pony  she  used  to 
gallop  about  the  fields  near  the  Hall.  The  Captain  was 
laughing  and  chatting  gaily  as  they  drew  near,  now  to 
the  one,  now  to  the  other.  Being  on  my  own  side  of 
the  road  I  held  straight  on,  not  wishing  to  stop  or  to 
reveal  the  signs  of  a  distress  which  had  almost  over- 
whelmed me.  I  felt  as  cold  as  death,  or  rather  as  if  my 
whole  being  had  been  deprived  of  vitality  by  a  sudden 
exhaustion  around  me  of  the  ethereal  element  of  life.     I 


448  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHnOURHOOU. 

believe  I  did  not  alter  my  bearing,  but  remained  with 
my  head  bent,  for  I  had  been  thinking  hard  just  beforcj 
till  we  were  on  the  point  of  meeting,  when  I  lifted  my 
hat  to  Miss  Oldcastle  without  drawing  bridle,  and  went 
on.  The  Captain  returned  my  salutation,  and  likewise 
rode  on.  I  could  just  see,  as  they  passed  me,  that  Miss 
Oldcastle's  pale  face  was  flushed  even  to  scarlet,  but  she 
only  bowed  and  kept  alongside  of  her  companion.  I 
thought  I  had  escaped  conversation,  and  had  gone  about 
twenty  yards  farther,  when  I  heard  the  clatter  of  Judy's 
pony  behind  me,  and  up  she  came  at  full  gallop. 

"  Why  didn't  you  stop  to  speak  to  us,  Mr  Walton  ? " 
she  said.  "  I  pulled  up,  but  you  never  looked  at  me. 
We  shall  be  cross  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  because  you 
cut  us  so.     What  have  we  done  ? " 

"  Nothing,  Judy,  that  I  know  of,"  I  answered,  trying 
to  speak  cheerfully.  "  But  1  do  not  know  your  com- 
panion, and  I  was  not  in  the  humour  for  an  introduction." 

She  looked  hard  at  me  with  her  keen  gray  eyes ;  and 
I  felt  as  if  the  child  was  seeing  through  me. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,  Mr  Walton. 
You  're  very  different  somehow  from  what  you  used  to 
be.  There 's  something  wrong  somewhere.  But  I  sup- 
pose you  would  all  tell  me  it 's  none  of  my  business.  So 
I  won't  ask  questions.  Only  I  wish  I  could  do  anything 
for  you." 

I  felt  the  child's  kindness,  but  could  only  say — 

"  Thank  you,  Judy.  I  am  sure  I  should  ask  you  if 
there  were  anything  you  could  do  for  me.  But  you  *11 
be  left  behind." 


SATAN    CAST    OUT.  449 


"  No  fear  of  that  My  Dobbin  can  go  much  fasten 
than  their  big  horses.  But  I  see  you  don't  want  mc,  so 
good-bye." 

She  turned  her  pony's  head  as  she  spoke,  jumped  the 
ditch  at  the  side  of  the  road,  and  flew  after  them  along 
the  grass  like  a  swallow.  I  likewise  roused  my  horse 
and  went  off  at  a  hard  trot,  with  the  vain  impulse  so  to 
shake  off  the  tormenting  thoughts  that  crowded  on  me 
like  gadflies.  But  this  day  was  to  be  one  of  more  trial 
still. 

As  I  turned  a  r  >mer,  almost  into  the  street  of  the 
village,  Tom  Weiv  was  at  my  side.  He  had  evidently 
been  watching  f')r  me.  His  face  was  so  pale,  that  I  saw 
in  a  moment  s^vmething  had  happened. 

**  What  is  t.ie  matter,  Toml"  I  asked,  in  some  alarm. 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  kept  unconsciously 
stroking  my  horse's  neck,  and  staring  at  me  "  with  wide 
blue  eyes." 

"  Come,  Tom,"  I  repeated,  "  tell  me  v.'hat  is  the 
matter." 

I  could  see  his  bare  throat  knot  and  relax,  like  the 
motion  of  a  serpent,  before  he  could  utter  the  words. 

"  Kate  has  killed  her  little  boy,  sir." 

He  followed  them  with  a  stifled  cry — almost  a  scream, 
and  nid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  God  forbid  !"  I  exclaimed,  and  struck  my  heels  in  my 
horse's  sides,  nearly  overturning  poor  Tom  in  my  haste. 

"  She 's  mad,  sir ;  she 's  mad,"  he  cried,  as  I  rode  off. 

"  Come  after  me,"  I  said,  "  and  take  the  mare  home. 

I  shan't  be  able  to  leave  your  sister." 

2  F 


i 


450  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOIIRHOODl 

Had  I  had  a  share,  by  my  harsh  words,  in  driving  tha 
woman  beyond  the  bounds  of  human  reason  and  endur- 
ance 1  The  thought  was  dreadful.  But  I  must  not  let 
ni)  mind  rest  on  it  now,  lest  I  should  be  unfitted  for 
what  might  have  to  be  done.  Belore  I  reached  the  door, 
I  saw  a  little  crowd  of  the  villagers,  mostly  women  and 
children,  gathered  about  it.  I  got  off  my  horse,  and 
gave  him  to  a  woman  to  hold  till  Tom  should  come  up. 
With  a  little  difficulty,  I  prevailed  on  the  rest  to  go  home 
at  once,  and  not  add  to  the  confusions  and  tenors  of 
the  unhappy  affair  by  the  excitement  of  their  presence. 
As  soon  as  they  had  yielded  to  my  arguments,  I  entered 
the  shop,  which  to  my  annoyance  I  found  full  of  the 
neighbours.  These  likewise  I  got  rid  of  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, and  locking  the  door  behind  them,  went  up  to  the 
room  above. 

To  my  surprise,  I  found  no  one  there.  On  the  hearth 
and  in  the  fender  lay  two  little  pools  of  blood.  All  in 
the  house  was  utterly  still.  It  was  very  dreadful.  I 
went  to  the  only  other  door.  It  was  not  bolted  as  I 
had  expected  to  find  it  I  opened  it,  peeped  in,  and 
entered.  On  the  bed  lay  the  mother,  white  as  death, 
but  with  her  black  eyes  wide  open,  staring  at  the  ceil- 
ing :  and  on  her  arm  lay  little  Gerard,  as  white,  except 
where  the  blood  had  flowed  from  the  bandage  that  coula 
not  confine  it,  down  his  sweet  deathlike  face.  His  eyes 
were  fast  closed,  and  he  had  no  sign  of  life  about  him. 
I  shut  the  door  behind  me,  and  approached  the  bed. 
When  Catherine  caught  sight  of  me,  she  showed  no  srir 


SATAN    CAST    OUT.  451 

prise  or  emotion  of  any  kind.  Her  lips,  with  automaton  • 
like  movement,  uttered  the  words — 

"  I  have  done  it  at  last  I  am  ready.  Take  me  away. 
I  shall  be  hanged.  I  don't  care.  I  confess  it.  Only 
don't  let  the  people  stare  at  me." 

Her  lips  went  on  moving,  but  I  could  hear  no  more 
till  suddenly  she  broke  out — 

"  Oh  !  my  baby  !  my  baby ! "  and  gave  a  cry  of  such 
agony  as  I  hope  never  to  hear  again  while  I  live. 

At  this  moment  I  heard  a  loud  knocking  at  the  shop- 
door,  which  was  the  only  entrance  to  the  house,  and 
remembering  that  I  had  locked  it,  I  went  down  to  see 
who  was  there.  I  found  Thomas  Weir,  the  father,  ac- 
companied by  Dr  Duncan,  whom,  as  it  happened,  he 
had  had  some  difficulty  in  finding.  Thomas  had  sped 
to  his  daughter  the  moment  he  heard  the  rumour  of  what 
had  happened,  and  his  fierceness  in  clearing  the  shop 
had  at  least  prevented  the  neighbours,  even  in  his  ab- 
sence, from  intruding  further. 

We  went  up  together  to  C  itherine's  room.  Thomas 
said  nothing  to  me  about  what  had  happened,  and  I 
found  it  difficult  even  to  conjecture  from'  his  countenance 
what  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind. 

Catherine  looked  from  one  to  another  of  us,  as  if  she 
did  not  know  the  one  from  tlie  other.  She  made  no 
motion  to  rise  from  her  bed,  nor  did  she  utter  a  word, 
although  her  lips  would  now  and  then  move  as  if  mould- 
ing a  sentence.  When  Dr  Duncan,  after  looking  at  the 
child,  proceeded  to  take  him  from  her,  she  gave  him  one 


452  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

imploring  look,  and  yielded  with  a  moan ;  then  began 
CO  stare  hopelessly  at  the  ceiling  again.  The  doctor  car- 
ried the  child  into  the  next  room,  and  the  grandfather 
followed. 

"  You  see  what  you  have  driven  me  to ! "  cried  Cathe- 
rine, the  moment  I  was  left  alone  with  her.  "  I  hope 
you  are  satisfied." 

The  words  went  to  my  very  soul.  But  when  I  looked 
at  her,  her  eyes  were  wandering  about  over  the  ceiling, 
and  I  had  and  still  have  difficulty  in  believing  that  she 
spoke  the  words,  and  that  they  were  not  an  illusion  of 
my  sense,  occasioned  by  the  commotion  of  my  own  feel- 
ings. I  thought  it  better,  however,  to  leave  her,  and 
join  the  others  in  the  sitting-room.  The  first  thing  I 
saw  there  was  Thomas  on  his  knees,  with  a  basin  of 
water,  washing  away  the  blood  of  his  grandson  from  his 
daughter's  floor.  The  very  sight  of  the  child  had  hitherto 
been  nauseous  to  him,  and  his  daughter  had  been  be- 
yond the  reach  of  his  forgiveness.  Here  was  the  end  of 
it — the  blood  of  the  one  shed  by  the  hand  of  the  other, 
and  the  father  of  both,  who  had  disdained  both,  on  his 
knees,  wiping  it  up.  Dr  Duncan  was  giving  the  child 
brandy;  for  he  had  found  that  he  had  been  sick,  and 
that  the  loss  of  blood  was  the  chief  cause  of  his  condition. 
The  blood  flowed  from  a  wound  on  the  head,  extending 
backwards  from  the  temple,  which  had  evidently  been 
occasioned  by  a  fall  upon  the  fender,  where  the  blood 
lay  both  inside  and  out ;  and  the  doctor  took  the  sick- 
ness as  a  sign  that  the  brain  had  not  been  seriously 
injured  by  the  blow.     In  a  few  minutes  he  said — 


SATAN    CAST   OUT.  45? 


"  I  think  he  '11  come  round." 

"  Will  it  be  safe  to  tell  his  mother  so  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Yes  :  I  think  you  may." 

I  hastened  to  her  room. 

"  Your  little  darling  is  not  dead,  Catherine.  He  is 
coming  to." 

She  threxo  herself  off  the  bed  at  my  feet,  caught  them 
round  with  her  arms,  and  cried — 

"  I  will  forgive  him.  I  will  do  anything  you  like.  I 
forgive  George  Everard.  I  will  go  and  ask  my  father  to 
forgive  me." 

I  lifted  her  in  my  arms — how  light  she  was  ! — and  laid 
her  again  on  the  bed,  where  she  burst  into  tears,  and  lay 
sobbing  and  weeping.  I  went  to  the  other  room.  Little 
Gerard  opened  his  eyes  and  closed  them  again,  as  I 
entered.  The  doctor  had  laid  him  in  his  own  crib.  He 
said  his  pulse  was  improving.  I  beckoned  to  Thomas. 
He  followed  me. 

"  She  wants  to  ask  you  to  forgive  her,"  I  said.  "  Do 
not,  in  God  s  name,  wait  till  she  asks  you,  but  go  and 
tell  her  that  you  forgive  her." 

"  I  dare  not  say  I  forgive  her,"  he  answered.  "  I 
have  more  need  to  ask  her  to  forgive  me." 

I  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  into  her  room. 
Slie  feebly  lifted  her  arms  towards  him.  Not  a  word 
ivas  said  on  either  side.  I  left  them  in  each  other's 
embrace.  The  hard  rocks  had  been  struck  with  the 
rod,  and  the  waters  of  life  had  flowed  forth  from  each, 
and  had  met  between. 

I  have  more  than  once  known  this  in  the  course  o/ 


tS4  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

my  experience — the  ice  and  snow  of  a  long  estrangement 
suddenly  give  way,  and  the  boiling  geyser-floods  of  old 
affection  rush  from  the  hot  deeps  of  the  heart.  I  thint 
myself  that  the  very  lastingness  and  strength  of  animo- 
sity have  their  origin  sometimes  in  the  reality  of  affec- 
tion :  the  love  lasts  all  the  while,  freshly  indignant  at 
every  new  load  heaped  upon  it ;  till,  at  last,  a  word,  a 
look,  a  sorrow,  a  gladness,  sets  it  free ;  and,  forgetting 
all  its  claims,  it  rushes  irresistibly  towards  its  ends. 
Thus  was  it  with  Thomas  and  Catherine  Weir. 

When  I  rejoined  Dr  Duncan,  I  found  little  Gerard 
asleep,  and  breathing  quietly. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  this  sad  business,  Mr  Wal- 
ton ? "  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  the  same  question  of  you,"  I 
returned.  "Young  Tom  told  me  that  his  sister  had 
murdered  the  child.     That  is  all  I  know." 

"  His  father  told  me  the  same ;  and  that  is  all  I  know. 
Do  you  believe  it  1 " 

"  At  least  we  have  no  evidence  about  it.  It  is  toler- 
ably certain  neither  of  those  two  could  have  been  pre- 
sent. They  must  have  received  it  by  report.  We  must 
wait  till  she  is  able  to  explain  the  thing  herself." 

**  Meantime,"  said  Dr  Duncan,  "  all  I  believe  is,  that 
she  struck  the  child,  and  that  he  fell  upon  the  fender." 

I  may  as  well  inform  my  reader  that,  as  far  as  Catlicr- 
ine  could  rive  an  account  of  the  transaction,  this  conjec- 
ture was  corroborated.  But  the  smallest  reminder  of  it 
evidently  filled  her  with  such  a  horror  of  self-loathing, 
that  I  took  care  to  avoid  the  subject  entirely,  after  the 


SATAN    CAST   OUT.  455 

attempt  at  explanation  which  she  made  at  my  request 
She  could  not  remember  with  any  clearness  what  had 
happened.  All  she  remembered  was  that  she  had  been 
more  miserable  than  ever  in  her  life  before;  that  the 
child  had  come  to  her,  as  he  seldom  did,  with  some 
childish  request  or  other;  that  she  felt  herself  seized 
with  intense  hatred  of  him ;  and  the  next  thing  she  knew 
was  that  his  blood  was  running  in  a  long  red  finger 
towards  her.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  that  blood  had  been 
drawn  from  her  own  over-charged  heart  and  brain ;  she 
knew  what  she  had  done,  though  she  did  not  know  how 
she  had  done  it;  and  the  tide  of  her  ebbed  affection 
flowed  like  the  returning  waters  of  the  Solway.  But  be- 
yond her  restored  love,  she  remembered  nothing  more 
that  happened  till  she  lay  weeping  with  the  hope  that 
the  child  would  yet  live.  Probably  more  particulars 
returned  afterwards,  but  I  took  care  to  ask  no  more 
questions.  In  the  increase  of  illness  that  followed  I 
more  than  once  saw  her  shudder  while  she  slept,  and 
thought  she  was  dreaming  what  her  waking  memory  had 
forgotten ;  and  once  she  started  awake,  crying,  "  I  have 
murdered  him  again." 

To  return  to  that  first  evening :— When  Thomas  came 
from  his  daughter's  room,  he  looked  like  a  man  from 
whom  the  bitterness  of  evil  had  passed  away.  To  human 
eyes,  at  least,  it  seemed  as  if  self  had  been  utterly  slain 
in  him.  His  face  had  that  child-like  expression  in  its 
paleness,  and  the  tearfulness  without  tears  haunting  his 
eyes,  which  reminds  one  of  the  feeling  of  an  evening  in 
summer  between  which  and  the  sultry  day  preceding  il 


4S6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

has  fallen  the  gauzy  veil  of  a  cooling  shower,  with  a 
rainbow  in  the  east. 

"  She  is  asleep,"  he  said. 

"How  is  it  your  daughter  Mary  is  not  here?"  I 
asked. 

"  She  was  taken  with  a  fit  the  moment  she  heard  the 
bad  news,  sir.  I  left  her  with  nobody  but  father.  I 
think  I  must  go  and  look  after  her  now.  It 's  not  the 
first  she's  had  neither,  though  I  never  told  any  one 
before.  You  won't  mention  it,  sir.  It  makes  people 
look  shy  at  you,  you  know,  sir." 

"  Indeed,  I  won't  mention  it. — Then  she  mustn't  sit 
up,  and  two  nurses  will  be  wanted  here.  You  and  I 
must  take  it  to-night,  Thomas.  You  '11  attend  to  your 
daughter,  if  she  wants  anything,  and  I  know  this  little 
darling  won't  be  frightened  if  he  comes  to  himself,  and 
sees  me  beside  him." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  fervently. 

And  from  that  hour  to  this  there  has  never  been  a 
coolness  between  us. 

"  A  very  good  arrangement,"  said  Dr  Duncan ;  "  only 
I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  have  a  share  in  it" 

"  No,  no,"  I  said.  "  We  do  not  know  who  may  want 
you.     Besides,  we  are  both  younger  than  you." 

"  I  will  come  over  early  in  the  morning  then,  and  see 
how  you  are  going  on." 

As  soon  as  Thomas  returned  with  good  news  of 
Mary's  recovery,  I  left  him,  and  went  home  to  tell  my 
sister,  and  arrange  for  the  night.  We  carried  back  with 
us  what  things  we  could   think   of  to   make  the  two 


SATAN    CAST    OUT,  45J 


patients  as  comfortable  n,s  possible;  for,  as  regarded 
Catherine,  now  that  she  would  let  her  fellows  help  her, 
T  was  even  anxious  that  she  should  feel  something  ot 
that  love  about  her  which  she  had  so  long  driven  from 
her  door.  I  felt  towards  her  somewhat  as  towards  a 
now-born  child,  for  whom  this  life  of  mingled  weft  must 
be  made  as  soft  as  its  material  will  admit  of;  or  rather, 
as  if  she  had  been  my  own  sister,  as  indeed  she  was, 
returned  from  wandering  in  weary  and  miry  ways,  to 
taste  once  more  the  tenderness  of  home.  I  wanted  her 
to  read  the  love  of  God  in  the  love  that  even  I  could 
show  her.  And,  besides,  I  must  confess  that,  although 
the  result  had  been,  in  God's  great  grace,  so  good,  my 
heart  still  smote  me  for  the  severity  with  which  I  had 
spoken  the  truth  to  her;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  myself  fo 
endeavour  to  make  some  amends  for  having  so  spoken 
to  her.  But  I  had  no  intention  of  going  near  her  that 
night,  for  I  thought  the  less  she  saw  of  me  the  better, 
till  she  should  be  a  little  stronger,  and  have  had  time, 
v;ith  the  help  of  her  renewed  feelings,  to  get  over  the 
painful  associations  so  long  accompanying  the  thought 
of  me.  So  I  took  my  place  beside  Gerard,  and  watched 
through  the  night.  The  little  fellow  repeatedly  cried 
out  in  that  terror  which  is  so  often  the  consequence  of 
the  loss  of  blood ;  but  when  I  laid  my  hand  on  him,  he 
smiled  without  waking,  and  lay  quite  still  again  for  a 
while.  Once  or  twice  he  woke  up,  and  looked  so  be- 
wildered that  I  feared  delirium ;  but  a  little  jelly  com- 
posed him,  and  he  fell  fast  asleep  again.  He  did  not 
§eem  even  to  have  headache  from  the  blow. 


458  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

But  when  I  was  left  alone  with  the  child,  seated  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire,  my  only  light,  how  my  thoughts  rushed 
upon  the  facts  bearing  on  my  own  history  which  this  day 
had  brought  before  me  !  Horror  it  was  to  think  of  Mi^>s 
Oldcastle  even  as  only  riding  with  the  seducer  of  Catht  r- 
ine  Weir.  There  was  torture  in  the  thought  of  his  touch- 
ing her  hand ;  and  to  think  that  before  the  summer  came 
once  more,  he  might  be  her  husband !  I  will  not  dwell 
on  the  sufferings  of  that  night  more  than  is  needful ;  for 
even  now,  in  my  old  age,  I  cannot  recall  without  renew- 
ing them.  But  I  must  indicate  one  train  of  thought 
which  kept  passing  through  my  mind  with  constant 
recurrence  : — Was  it  fair  to  let  her  marry  such  a  man  in 
ignorance?  Would  she  marry  him  if  she  knew  what  I 
knew  of  him?  Could  I  speak  against  my  rival? — 
blacken  him  even  with  the  truth — the  only  defilement 
that  can  really  cling  ?  Could  I  for  my  own  dignity  do 
so?  And  was  she  therefore  to  be  sacrificed  in  ignor- 
ance ?  Might  not  some  one  else  do  it  instead  of  me  ? 
But  if  I  set  it  agoing,  was  it  not  precisely  the  same  thing 
as  if  I  did  it  myself,  only  more  cowardly?  There  was 
but  one  way  of  doing  it,  and  that  was — with  the  full  and 
solemn  consciousness  that  it  was  and  must  be  a  barriei 
between  us  for  ever.  If  I  could  give  her  up  fully  and 
altogether,  then  I  might  tell  her  the  truth  which  was  to 
preserve  her  from  marrying  such  a  man  as  my  rival.  And 
I  must  do  so,  sooner  than  that  she,  my  very  dream  of 
purity  and  gentle  tnith,  should  wed  defilement.  But 
how  bitter  to  cast  away  my  chance!  as  I  said,  in  the 
gathering  despair  of  that  black  night     And  although 


SATAN    CAST    OUT.  4$^ 


every  time  I  said  it — for  the  same  words  would  come 
over  and  over  as  in  a  delirious  dream — I  repeated  yet 
again  to  myself  that  wonderful  line  of  Spenser, — 

"  It  chanced — eternal  God  that  chance  did  guide," 

yet  the  words  never  grew  into  spirit  in  me ;  they  re- 
mained "  words,  words,  words,"  and  meant  nothing  to 
my  feeling — hardly  even  to  my  judgment  meant  anything 
at  all.  Then  came  another  bitter  thought,  the  bitterness 
of  which  was  wicked  :  it  flashed  upon  me  that  my  own 
earnestness  with  Catherine  Weir,  in  urging  her  to  the 
duty  of  forgiveness,  would  bear  a  main  part  in  wrapping 
up  in  secrecy  that  evil  thing  which  ought  not  to  be  hid. 
For  had  she  not  vowed — with  the  same  facts  before  her 
which  now  threatened  to  crush  my  heart  into  a  lump  of 
clay — to  denounce  the  man  at  the  very  altar]  Had  not 
the  revenge  which  I  had  ignorantly  combated  been  my 
best  ally]  And  for  one  brief,  black,  wicked  moment  I 
repented  that  I  had  acted  as  I  had  acted.  The  next  I 
was  on  my  knees  by  the  side  of  the  sleeping  child,  and 
had  repented  back  again  in  shame  and  sorrow.  Then 
came  the  consolation  that  if  I  suffered  hereby,  I  suffered 
from  doing  my  duty.     And  that  was  well. 

Scarcely  had  I  seated  myself  again  by  the  fire  when 
the  door  of  the  room  opened  softly,  and  Thomas  ap- 
peared. 

"  Kate  is  very  strange,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and  wants  to 
see  you." 

I  rose  at  once. 

"  Perhaps,  then,  you  had  better  stay  with  Gerard." 


460  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  I  will,  sir ;  for  I  think  she  wants  to  speak  to  you 
alone." 

I  entered  her  chamber.  A  candle  stood  on  a  chest  of 
drawers,  and  its  light  fell  on  her  face,  once  more  flushed 
in  those  two  spots  with  the  glow  of  the  unseen  fire  of 
disease.  Her  eyes,  too,  glittered  again,  but  the  fierce- 
ness was  gone,  and  only  the  suffering  remained.  I  drew 
a  chair  beside  her,  and  took  her  hand.  She  yielded  it 
willinjjly,  even  returned  the  pressure  of  kindness  which 
I  offered  to  the  thin  trembling  fingers. 

"  You  are  too  good,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  tell 
you  all.  He  promised  to  marry  me.  I  believed  him. 
Eut  I  did  very  wrong.  And  I  have  been  a  bad  mother, 
ft)r  I  could  not  keep  from  seeing  his  face  in  Gerard's. 
Gerard  was  the  name  he  told  me  to  call  him  when  I  had 
to  write  to  him,  and  so  I  named  the  little  darling  Gerard. 
How  is  he,  sir?" 

"  Doing  nicely,"  I  replied.  "  I  do  not  think  you  need 
be  at  all  uneasy  about  him  now." 

"  Thank  God.  I  forgive  his  father  now  with  all  my 
heart.  I  feel  it  easier  since  I  saw  how  wicked  I  could 
be  myself.  And  I  feel  it  easier,  too,  that  I  have  not 
long  to  live.  I  forgive  him  Avith  all  my  heart,  and  I  will 
take  no  revenge.  I  will  not  tell  one  who  he  is.  I  have 
never  told  any  one  yet.  But  I  will  tell  you.  His  name 
if)  George  Everard — Captain  Everard.  I  came  to  know 
him  when  I  was  apprenticed  at  Addicehead.  I  would 
not  tc'il  you,  sir,  if  I  did  not  kn6w  that  you  will  not  tell 
any  one.  I  know  you  so  well  that  I  will  not  ask  you 
not     I  saw  him  yesterday,  and  it  drove  me  wild     But 


sataw  cast  out.  461 


it  is  all  over  now.  My  heart  feels  so  cool  now.  Do  you 
think  God  will  forgive  me  ? " 

Without  one  word  of  my  own,  I  took  out  my  pocket 
Testament  and  read  these  words  : — 

"  For  if  ye  forgive  men  their  trespasses,  your  heavenly 
Father  will  also  forgive  you." 

Then  I  read  to  her,  from  the  seventh  chapter  of  St 
Luke's  Gospel,  the  story  of  the  woman  who  was  a  sinner 
and  came  to  Jesus  in  Simon's  house,  that  she  might  see 
how  the  Lord  himself  thought  and  felt  about  such.  When 
I  had  finished,  I  found  that  she  was  gently  weeping,  and 
so  I  left  her,  and  resumed  my  place  beside  the  boy.  I 
told  Thomas  that  he  had  better  not  go  near  her  just 
yet.  So  we  sat  in  sUence  together  for  a  while,  during 
which  I  felt  so  weary  and  benumbed,  that  I  neither 
cared  to  resume  my  former  train  of  thought,  nor  to  enter 
upon  the  new  one  suggested  by  the  confession  of  Cathe- 
rine. I  believe  I  must  have  fallen  asleep  in  my  chair, 
for  I  suddenly  returned  to  consciousness  at  a  cry  from 
Gerard.  I  started  up,  and  there  was  the  child  fast 
asleep,  but  standing  on  his  feet  in  his  crib,  pushing  with 
his  hards  from  before  him,  as  if  resisting  some  one,  and 
crying— 

"  Don't.  Don't  Go  away,  man.  Mammy  1  Mr 
Walton!" 

I  took  him  in  my  arms,  and  kissed  him,  and  laid  him 
down  again;  and  he  lay  as  still  as  if  he  had  never 
moved.  At  the  same  moment,  Thomas  came  again  into 
the  room. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  so  troublesome,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  but 


-^ 

462  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOIX 

my  poor  daughter  says  there  is  one  thing  more  she  wanted 
to  say  to  you." 

I  returned  at  once.  As  soon  as  I  entered  the  room, 
she  said  eagerly  : — 

"  I  forgive  him — I  forgive  him  with  all  my  heart ;  but 
don't  let  him  take  Gerard." 

I  assured  her  I  would  do  my  best  to  prevent  any  such 
attempt  on  his  part,  and  making  her  promise  to  try  to 
go  to  sleep,  left  her  once  more.  Nor  was  either  of  the 
patients  disturbed  again  during  the  night  Both  slept, 
as  it  appeared,  refreshingly. 

In  the  morning,  that  is,  before  eight  o'clock,  the  old 
doctor  made  his  welcome  appearance,  and  pronounced 
both  quite  as  well  as  he  had  expected  to  find  them.  In 
another  hour,  he  had  sent  young  Tom  to  take  my  place, 
and  my  sister  to  take  his  father's.  I  was  determined 
that  none  of  the  gossips  of  the  village  should  go  near 
the  invalid  if  I  could  help  it;  for,  though  such  might  be 
kind-hearted  and  estimable  women,  their  place  was  not 
by  such  a  couch  as  that  of  Catherine  Weir.  I  enjoined 
my  sister  to  be  very  gentle  in  her  approaches  to  her,  to 
be  careful  even  not  to  seem  anxious  to  serve  her,  and  so 
to  allow  her  to  get  gradually  accustomed  to  her  presence, 
not  showing  herself  for  the  first  day  more  than  she  could 
help,  and  yet  taking  good  care  she  should  have  every- 
thing she  wanted.  Martha  seemed  to  understand  me 
perfectly;  and  I  left  her  in  charge  with  the  more  con- 
fidence that  I  knew  Dr  Duncan  would  call  several  times 
in  the  course  of  the  day.  As  for  Tom,  I  had  equal 
assurance  that  he  would  attend  to  orders ;  and  as  Gerard 


SATAN    CAST    OUT.  46;, 

was  very  fond  of  him,  I  dismissed  all  anxiety  about  botli, 
and  allowed  my  mind  to  return  with  fresh  avidity  to 
the  contemplation  of  its  own  cares,  and  fears,  and  per- 
plexities. 

It  was  of  no  use  trying  to  go  to  sleep,  so  I  set  out  for 
a  walk 


CHAPTER  XXV IT. 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  CHILD. 

|T  was  a  fine  frosty  morning,  the  invigorating 
influences  of  which,  acting  along  with  the 
excitement  following  immediately  upon  a 
sleepless  night,  overcame  in  a  great  measur** 
the  depression  occasioned  by  the  contemplation  of  my 
circumstances.  Disinclined  notwithstanding  for  any 
more  pleasant  prospect,  I  sought  the  rugged  common 
where  I  had  so  lately  met  Catherine  Weir  in  the  storm 
and  darkness,  and  where  I  had  stood  without  knowing 
it  upon  the  very  verge  of  the  precipice  down  which  my 
fate  was  now  threatening  to  hurl  me.  I  reached  the 
same  chasm  in  which  I  had  sought  a  breathing  space 
on  that  night,  and  turning  into  it,  sat  down  upon  a  block 
of  sand  which  the  frost  had  detached  from  the  wall 
above.  And  now  the  tumult  began  again  in  my  mind, 
revolving  around  the  vortex  of  a  new  centre  of  difficulty. 
For,  first  of  all,  I  found  my 'mind  relieved  by  the  fact 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    CHILD.  465 

that,  havin.T  urged  Catherine  to  a  line  of  conduct  which 
had  resulted  in  confession, — a  confession  which,  leav- 
ing all  other  considerations  of  my  office  out  of  view, 
had  the  greater  claim  upon  my  secrecy  that  it  was  made 
in  confidence  in  my  uncovenanted  honour, — I  was  not, 
could  not  be  at  liberty  to  disclose  the  secret  she  con- 
fided to  me,  which,  disclosed  by  herself,  would  have 
been  the  revenge  from  which  I  had  warned  her,  and  at 
the  same  time  my  deliverance.  I  was  relieved  I  say  at 
first,  by  this  view  of  the  matter,  because  I  might  thus 
keep  my  own  chance  of  some  favourable  turn ;  whereas, 
if  I  once  told  Miss  Oldcastle,  I  must  give  her  up  for 
ever,  as  I  had  plainly  seen  in  the  watch  of  the  preceding 
night  But  my  love  did  not  long  remain  skulking  thus 
behind  the  hedge  of  honour.  Suddenly  I  woke  and  saw 
that  I  was  unworthy  of  the  honour  of  loving  her,  for 
that  I  was  glad  to  be  compelled  to  risk  her  well-being 
for  the  chance  of  my  own  happiness ;  a  risk  which  in- 
volved infinitely  more  wretchedness  to  her  than  the  loss 
of  my  dearest  hopes  to  me;  for  it  is  one  thing  for 
a  man  not  to  marry  the  woman  he  loves,  and  quite 
another  for  a  woman  to  marry  a  man  she  cannot  even 
respect.  Had  I  not  been  withheld  partly  by  my  obliga- 
tion to  Catherine,  partly  by  the  feeling  that  I  ought  to 
wait  and  see  what  God  would  do,  I  should  have  risen 
that  moment  and  gone  straight  to  Oldcastle  Hall,  that 
[  might  plunge  at  once  into  the  ocean  of  my  loss,  and 
encounter,  with  the  full  sense  of  honourable  degrada- 
tion, every  misconstruction  that  might  justly  be  devised 

of  my  conduct.     For  that  I  had  given  her  up  first  could 

2  G 


466  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

never  be  known  even  to  her  in  this  world.  I  could 
only  save  her  by  encountering  and  enduring  and  cherish- 
ing her  scorn.  At  least  so  it  seemed  to  me  at  the  time ; 
and,  although  I  am  certain  the  other  higher  motives  had 
much  to  do  in  holding  me  back,  I  am  equally  certain 
that  this  awful  vision  of  the  irrevocable  fate  to  follow 
upon  the  deed,  had  great  influence,  as  well,  in  inclining 
me  to  suspend  action. 

I  was  still  sitting  in  the  hollow,  when  I  heard  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  distance,  and  felt  a  fore- 
boding of  what  would  appear.  I  was  only  a  few  yards 
from  the  road  upon  which  the  sand-cleft  opened,  and 
could  see  a  space  of  it  sufficient  to  show  the  persons 
even  of  rapid  riders.  The  sounds  drew  nearer.  I  could 
distinguish  the  step  of  a  pony  and  the  steps  of  two 
horses  besides.  Up  they  came  ahd,  swept  past — Miss 
Oldcastle  upon  Judy's  pony,  and  Mr  Stoddart  upon  her 
horse,  with  the  captain  upon  his  own.  How  grateful  I 
felt  to  Mr  Stoddart !  And  the  hope  arose  in  me  that, 
he  had  accompanied  them  at  Miss  Oldcastle's  request. 

I  had  had  no  fear  of  being  seen,  sitting  as  I  was  on 
the  side  from  which  they  came.  One  of  the  three,  how- 
ever, caught  a  glimpse  of  me,  and  even  in  the  moment 
ere  she  vanished  I  fancied  I  saw  the  lily-white  grow 
rosy-red.  But  it  must  have  been  fancy,  for  she  could 
hardly  have  been  quite  pale  upon  horseback  on  such  a 
keen  morning. 

1  could  not  sit  any  longer.  As  soon  as  I  ceased  to  hear 
the  sound  of  their  progress,  I  rose  and  walked  home — • 
much  quieter  in  heart  and  mind  than  when  I  set  out 


THE   MAN    AND   THE    CHILD.  n  46J 

As  I  entered  by  the  nearer  gate  of  the  vicarage,  I 
saw  Old  Rogers  enter  by  the  farther.  He  did  not  see 
me,  but  we  met  at  the  door.     I  greeted  him. 

"  I  'm  in  luck,"  he  said,  "  to  meet  yer  reverence  just 
coming  home.     How's  poor  Miss  Weir  to-day,  sir?" 

"  She  was  rather  better,  when  I  left  her  this  morning, 
than  she  had  been  through  the  night.  I  have  not  heard 
since.  I  left  my  sister  with  her.  I  greatly  doubt  if  she 
will  ever  get  up  again.  That 's  between  ourselves,  you 
know.     Come  in." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you. — You  don't  believe  what  they  say — that  she  tried 
to  kill  the  poor  little  fellow  1 "  he  asked,  as  soor.  as  the 
study  door  was  closed  behind  us. 

"  If  she  did,  she  was  out  of  her  mind  for  the  moment. 
But  I  don't  believe  it'" 

And  thereupon  I  told  him  what  both  his  master  and 
I  thought  about  it.  But  I  did  not  tell  him  what  she 
had  said  confirmatory  of  our  conclusions. 

"  That 's  just  what  I  came  to  myself,  sir,  turning  the 
thing  over  in  my  old  head.  But  there's  dreadful  things 
done  in  the  world,  sir.  There's  my  daughter  been 
a-telling  of  me "  ,^ 

I  was  instantly  breathless  attention.  What  he  chose 
to  tell  me  I  felt  at  liberty  to  hear,  though  I  would  not 
hvive  listened  to  Jane  herself. — I  must  here  mention  that 
she  and  Richard  were  not  yet  married,  old  Mr  Brown- 
rigg  not  having  yet  consented  to  any  day  his  son  wished 
to  fix ;  and  that  she  was,  therefore,  still  in  her  place  of 
attendance  upon  Miss  Oldcastle. 


468  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


There  's  been  my  daughter  a-telling  of  me,"  said 


Rogers,  **  that  the  old  lady  up  at  the  JIall  there  is  tor- 
menting the  life  out  of  that  daughter  of  hers — she  don't 
look  much  like  hers,  do  she,  sir  1 — wanting  to  make  hei 
marry  a  man  of  her  choosing.  I  saw  him  go  past  o' 
horseback  with  her  yesterday,  and  I  didn't  more  than 
half  like  the  looks  on  him.  He 's  too  like  a  fair-spoken 
captain  I  sailed  with  once,  what  was  the  hardest  man  I 
ever  sailed  with.  His  own  way  was  everything,  even 
after  he  saw  it  wouldn't  do.  Now,  don't  you  think,  sir, 
somebody  or  other  ought  to  interfere  1  It 's  as  bad  as 
murder  that,  and  anybody  has  a  right  to  do  summat  to 
perwent  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  can  be  done,  Rogers.  I  can'i 
interfere." 

The  old  man  was  silent  Evidently  he  thought  I 
might  interfere  if  I  pleased.  I  could  see  Avhat  he  was 
thinking.  Possibly  his  daughter  had  told  him  something 
more  than  he  chose  to  communicate  to  me.  I  could  not 
help  suspecting  the  mode  in  which  he  judged  I  might 
interfere.  But  I  could  see  no  likelihood  before  me  but 
that  of  confusion  and  precipitation.  In  a  word,  I  had 
not"  a  plain  path  to  follow. 

"  Old  Rogers,"  I  said,  "  I  can  almost  guess  what  you 
mean.  But  I  am  in  more  difficulty  with  regard  to  what 
you  suggest  than  I  can  easily  explain  to  you.  I  need  not 
tell  you,  however,  that  I  will  turn  the  whole  matter  over 
in  my  mind." 

"  The  prey  ought  to  be  taken  from  the  lion  somehow, 
if  it  please  God,"  returned  the  old  man  solemnly.    "  The 


THE    MAN    AND   THE    CHILD.  469 

poor  young  lady  keeps  up  as  well  as  she  can  before  her 
mother ;  but  Jane  do  say  there 's  a  power  o'  crying  done 
in  her  own  room." 

Partly  to  hide  my  emotion,  partly  with  the  sudden 
resolve  to  do  something,  if  anything  could  be  done,  I 
said : — 

"  I  will  call  on  Mr  Stoddart  this  evening.  I  may  hear 
something  from  him  to  suggest  a  mode  of  action." 

"  I  don't  think  you  '11  get  anything  worth  while  from 
Mr  Stoddart.  He  takes  things  a  deal  too  easy  like. 
He'll  be  this  man's  man  and  that  man's  man  both  at 
oncet.     I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     But  /le  won't  help  us." 

*'  That's  all  I  can  think  of  at  present,  though,"  I  said ; 
whereupon  the  man-of-war's  man,  with  true  breeding, 
rose  at  once,  and  took  a  kindly  leave. 

1  was  in  the  storm  again.  She  suffering,  resisting,  and 
I  standing  aloof !  But  what  could  I  do  1  She  had  re- 
pelled me — she  would  repel  me.  Were  I  to  dare  to 
speak,  and  so  be  refused,  the  separation  would  be  final. 
She  had  said  that  the  day  might  come  when  she  would 
ask  help  from  me  :  she  had  made  no  movement  towards 
the  re.;]^uest.  I  would  gladly  die  to  serve  her — yea,  more 
gladly  far  than  live,  if  that  service  was  to  separate  us. 
But  what  to  do  I  could  not  see.  Still,  just  to  do  some- 
thing, even  if  a  useless  something,  I  would  go  and  see 
Mr  Stoddart  that  evening.  I  was  sure  to  find  him  alone, 
for  he  never  dined  with  the  family,  and  I  might  possibly 
catch  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Oldcastle. 

I  found  little  Gerard  so  much  better,  though  very 
weak,  and  his  mother  so  quiet,  notwithstanding  great 


470  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

feverishness,  that  I  might  safely  leave  them  to  the  care 
of  Mary,  who  had  quite  recovered  from  her  attack,  and 
her  brother  Tom.  So  there  was  something  off  my  mind 
for  the  present. 

The  heavens  were  glorious  with  stars, — Arcturus  and 
his  host,  the  Pleiades,  Orion,  and  all  those  worlds  that 
shine  out  when  ours  is  dark;  but  I  did  not  care  for 
them.  Let  them  shine  :  they  could  not  shine  into  me. 
I  tried  with  feeble  effort  to  lift  my  eyes  to  Him  who  is 
above  the  stars,  and  yet  holds  the  sea,  yea,  the  sea  of 
human  thought  and  trouble,  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand. 
How  much  sustaining,  although  no  conscious  comfort- 
ing, I  got  from  that  region 

"  Where  all  men's  prayers  to  Thee  raised 
Return  possessed  of  what  they  pray  Thee," 

I  cannot  tell.  It  was  not  a  time  favourable  to  the 
analysis  of  feeling — still  less  of  religious  feeling.  But 
somehow  things  did  seem  a  little  more  endurable  before 
I  reached  the  house. 

I  was  passing  across  the  hall,  following  the  "  white 
wolf"  to  Mr  Stoddart's  room,  when  the  drawing-room 
door  opened,  and  Miss  Oldcastle  came  half  out,  but 
seeing  me  drew  back  instantly.  A  moment  after,  how- 
ever, I  heard  the  sound  of  her  dress  following  us.  Light 
as  was  her  step,  every  footfall  seemed  to  be  upon  my 
heait  I  did  not  dare  to  look  round,  for  dread  of  seeing 
her  turn  away  from  me.  I  felt  like  one  under  a  spell,  or 
in  an  endless  dream ;  but  gladly  would  I  have  walked 
on  for  ever  in  hope,  with  that  silken  vortex  of  sound  fol- 
lowing me.     Soon,  however,  it  ceased.     She  had  turned 


THE    MAN    AND    THE   CHILD.  471 

aside  in  some  other  direction,  and  I  passed  on  to  Mr 
Stoddart's  room. 

He  received  me  kindly,  as  he  always  did;  but  his 
smile  flickered  uneasily.  He  seemed  in  some  trouble, 
and  yet  pleased  to  see  me. 

•'•'  I  am  glad  you  have  taken  to  horseback,"  I  said. 
"  It  gives  me  hope  that  you  will  be  my  companion  some- 
times when  I  make  a  round  of  my  parish.  I  should 
like  you  to  see  some  of  our  people.  You  would  find 
more  in  them  to  interest  you  than  perhaps  you  would 
expect." 

I  thus  tried  to  seem  at  ease,  as  I  was  far  from  feeling. 

*'  I  am  not  so  fond  of  riding  as  I  used  to  be,"  returned 
ISIr  Stoddart. 

"  Did  you  like  the  Arab  horses  in  India?" 

"  Yes,  after  I  got  used  to  their  careless  ways.  That 
horse  you  must  have  seen  me  on  the  other  day,  is  very 
nearly  a  pure  Arab.  He  belongs  to  Captain  Everard, 
and  carries  Miss  Oldcastle  beautifully.  I  was  quite 
sorry  to  take  him  from  her,  but  it  was  her  own  doing. 
She  would  have  me  go  with  her.  I  think  I  have  lost 
much  firmness  since  I  was  ill." 

"  If  the  loss  of  firmness  means  the  increase  of  kind- 
ness, I  do  not  think  you  will  have  to  lament  it,"  I  an- 
swered.    "  Does  Captain  Everard  make  a  long  stay  ] " 

"  He  stays  from  day  to  day.  I  wish  he  would  go.  I 
don't  know  what  to  do.  Mrs  Oldcastle  and  he  form  cni 
party  in  the  house;  Miss  Oldcastle  and  Judy  another; 
and  each  is  trying  to  gain  me  over.  I  don't  want  to 
belong  to  either.     If  they  would  only  let  me  alone  ! " 


472  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  What  do  they  want  of  you,  Mr  Stoddartr* 

"  Mrs  Oldcastle  wants  me  to  use  my  influence  with 
Ethelwyn,  to  persuade  her  to  behave  differently  to  Cap- 
tain Everard.  The  old  lady  has  set  her  heart  on  their 
marriage,  and  Ethelwyn,  though  she  dares  not  break 
with  him,  she  is  so  much  afraid  of  her  mother,  yet  keeps 
him  somehow  at  arm's  length.  Then  Judy  is  always 
begging  me  to  stand  up  for  her  aunt.  But  what 's  the 
use  of  my  standing  up  for  her  if  she  won't  stand  up  for 
herself;  she  never  says  a  word  to  me  about  it  herself. 
It's  all  Judy's  doing.  How  am  1  to  know  what  she 
wants?" 

"  I  thought  you  said  just  now  she  aske '.  you  to  ride 
with  her  1 " 

"  So  she  did,  but  nothing  more.  She  did  not  even 
press  it,  only  the  tears  came  in  her  eyes  when  I  refused, 
and  I  could  not  bear  that ;  so  I  went  against  my  will. 
I  don't  want  to  make  enemies.  I  am  sure  I  don't  see 
why  she  should  stand  out.  He 's  a  very  good  match  in 
point  of  property  and  family  too." 

"  Perhaps  she  does  not  like  him  ] "  I  forced  myself  to 
say. 

"  Oh  !  I  suppose  not,  or  she  would  not  be  so  trouble- 
some. But  she  could  arrange  all  that  if  she  were  in- 
clined to  be  agreeable  to  her  friends.  After  all  I  have 
done  for  her!  Well,  one  must  not  look  to  be  repaid 
(or  anything  one  does  for  others.  I  used  to  be  very 
fond  of  her :  I  am  getting  quite  tired  of  her  miserable 
looks." 

And  what  had  this  man  done  for  her,  then  ?    He  had, 


THE    MAN    AND   THE   CHILD.  473 

for  his  own  amusement,  taught  her  Hindostanee;  he 
had  given  her  some  insight  into  the  principles  of  me- 
chanics, and  he  had  roused  in  her  some  taste  for  the 
writings  of  the  Mystics.  But  for  all  that  regarded  the 
dignity  of  her  humanity  and  her  womanhood,  if  she  had 
had  no  teaching  but  what  he  gave  her,  her  mind  would 
have  been  merely  "  an  unweeded  garden  that  grows  to 
seed."  And  now  he  complained  that  in  return  for  his 
pains  she  would  not  submit  to  the  degradation  of  marry- 
ing a  man  she  did  not  love,  in  order  to  leave  him  in  the 
enjoyment  of  his  own  lazy  and  cowardly  peace.  Really 
he  was  a  worse  man  than  I  had  thought  him.  Clearly 
he  would  not  help  to  keep  her  in  the  right  path,  not 
even  interfere  to  prevent  her  from  being  pushed  into  the 
wrong  one.  But  perhaps  he  was  only  expressing  his 
own  discomfort,  not  giving  his  real  judgment,  and  I 
might  be  censuring  him  too  hardly. 

"  What  will  be  the  result,  do  you  suppose  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  can't  tell.  Sooner  or  later  she  will  have  to  give  ip 
to  her  mother.  Everybody  does.  She  might  as  well 
yield  with  a  good  grace." 

"  She  must  do  what  she  thinks  right,"  I  said.  "  And 
you,  Mr  Stoddart,  ought  to  help  her  to  do  what  is  right 
You  surely  would  not  urge  her  to  marry  a  man  she  did 
not  Irove." 

"  Well,  no ;  not  exactly  urge  her.  And  yet  society  does 
not  object  to  it.  It  is  an  acknowledged  arrangement, 
conimou  enough." 

"  Society  is  scarcely  an  interpreter  of  the  divine  will. 
Society  will  honour  vile  things  enough,  so  long  as  the 


474  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

doer  has  money  sufficient  to  clothe  them  in  a  grace  not 
their  own.  There  is  a  God's-way  of  doing  everything  in 
the  world,  up  to  marrying,  or  down  to  paying  a  bill." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  know  what  you  would  say ;  and  I  sup- 
pose you  are  right.  I  will  not  urge  any  opinion  of  mine. 
Besides,  we  shall  have  a  little  respite  soon,  for  he  must 
join  his  regiment  in  a  day  or  two." 

It  was  some  relief  to  hear  this.  But  I  could  not  with 
equanimity  prosecute  a  conversation  having  Miss  Old- 
castle  for  the  subject  of  it,  and  presently  took  my  leave. 

As  I  walked  through  one  of  the  long  passages,  but 
dimly  lighted,  leading  from  Mr  Stoddart's  apartment  to 
the  great  staircase,  I  started  at  a  light  touch  on  my  arm. 
.It  was  from  Judy's  hand. 

*'  Dear  Mr  Walton "  she  said,  and  stopped. 

For  at  the  same  moment  appeared  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  passage  towards  which  I  had  been  advancing,  a 
figure  of  which  little  more  than  a  white  face  was  visible ; 
and  the  voice  of  Sarah,  through  whose  softness  always 
ran  a  harsh  thread  that  made  it  unmistakable,  said, 

"  Miss  Judy,  your  grandmamma  wants  you." 

Judy  took  her  hand  from  my  arm,  and  with  an  almost 
martial  stride  the  little  creature  walked  up  to  the  speaker, 
and  stood  before  her  defiantly.  I  could  see  them  quite 
ffdl  in  the  fuller  light  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  where 
there  stood  a  lamp.  I  followed  slowly  that  I  might  not 
interrupt  the  child's  behaviour,  which  moved  me  strangely 
in  contrast  with  the  pusillanimity  I  had  so  lately  wit- 
nessed in  Mr  Stoddart. 

•'  Sarah,"  she  said,  "  you  know  you  are  telling  a  lia 


THE    MAN    AND    THE    CHILD.  475 

Grannie  does  not  want  me.     You  have  not  been  in  the 
.'jiiung-room  since  I  left  it  one  moment  ago.     Do  you 
think,  you  bad  woman,  /  am  going  to  be  afraid  of  you  ? 
X  know  3'ou  better  than  you  think.     Go  away  directly 
or  I  will  make  you." 

She  stamped  her  little  foot,  and  the  "white  wolf" 
turned  and  walked  away  without  a  word. 

If  the  mothers  among  my  readers  are  shocked  at  the 
want  of  decorum  in  my  friend  Judy,  I  would  just  say, 
that  valuable  as  propriety  of  demeanour  is,  truth  of  con- 
duct is  infinitely  more  precious.  Glad  should  I  be  to 
think  that  the  even  tenor  of  my  children's  good  manners 
could  never  be  interrupted,  except  by  such  righteous 
indignation  as  carried  Judy  beyond  the  strict  bounds  of 
good  breeding.  Nor  could  I  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
rebuke  her  wherein  she  had  been  wrong.  In  the  face  of 
her  courage  and  uprightness,  the  fault  was  so  insignifi- 
cant that  it  would  have  been  giving  it  an  altogether  un- 
due importance  to  allude  to  it  at  all,  and  might  weaken 
her  confidence  in  my  sympathy  with  her  rectitude.  When 
I  joined  her  she  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  so  walked 
with  me  down  the  stair  and  out  at  the  front  door. 

"  You  will  take  cold,  Judy,  going  out  like  that,"  I 
said. 

"  I  am  in  too  great  a  passion  to  take  cold,"  she  an- 
swered. "  But  I  have  no  time  to  talk  about  that  creep- 
ing creature. — Auntie  doesti't  like  Captain  Everard ;  and 
grannie  keeps  insisting  on  it  that  she  shall  have  him 
whether  she  likes  him  or  not  Now  do  tell  me  what 
you  thinL" 


476  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  my  child." 

"  I  know  auntie  would  like  to  know  what  you  think. 
But  I  know  she  will  never  ask  you  herself.  So  /am 
asking  you  whether  a  lady  ought  to  marry  a  gentleman 
she  does  not  like,  to  please  her  mother." 

"  Certainly  not,  Judy.  It  is  often  wicked,  and  at  best 
a  mistake." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr  Walton.  I  will  tell  her.  She  will 
be  glad  to  hear  that  you  say  so,  I  know." 

"  Mind  you  tell  her  you  asked  me,  Judy.  I  should 
not  like  her  to  think  I  had  been  interfering,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know  quite  well.  I  will  take  care. 
Thank  you.     He 's  going  to-morrow.     Good  night." 

She  bounded  into  the  house  again,  and  I  walked  away 
down  the  avenue.  I  saw  and  felt  the  stars  now,  for  hope 
had  come  again  in  my  heart,  and  I  thanked  the  God  of 
hope.  "  Our  minds  are  small  because  they  are  faithless," 
I  said  to  myself.  "  If  we  had  faith  in  God,  as  our  Lord 
tells  us,  our  hearts  would  share  in  His  greatness  and 
peace.  For  we  should  not  then  be  shut  up  in  ourselves, 
but  would  walk  abroad  in  Him."  And  with  a  light  step 
and  a  light  heart  I  went  home. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

OLD  MRS  TOMKINS. 

ERY  severe  weather  came,  and  much  sicTcness 
followed,  chiefly  amongst  the  poorer  people, 
who  can  so  ill  keep  out  the  cold.  Yet  some 
of  my  well-to-do  parishioners  were  laid  up 
likewise — amongst  others  Mr  Boulderstone,  who  had  an 
attack  of  pleurisy.  I  had  grown  quite  attached  to  Mr 
Boulderstone  by  this  time,  not  because  he  was  what  is 
called  interesting,  for  he  was  not ;  not  because  he  was 
clever,  for  he  was  not ;  not  because  he  was  well-read,  for 
he  was  not;  not  because  he  was  possessed  of  influence 
in  the  parish,  though  he  had  that  influence ;  but  simply 
because  he  was  truej  he  was  what  he  appeared,  felt 
what  he  professed,  did  what  he  said ;  appearing  kind, 
and  feeling  and  acting  kindly.  Such  a  man  is  rare  and 
precious,  were  he  as  stupid  as  the  Welsh  giant  in  "  Jack 
the  Giant-Killer."  I  could  never  see  Mr  Boulderstone 
a  mile  off,  but  my  heart  felt  the  warmer  for  the  sight. 


473  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Even  in  his  great  pain  he  seemed  to  forget  himself  as  he 
received  me,  and  to  gain  comfort  from  my  mere  presence. 
I  could  not  help  regarding  him  as  a  child  of  heaven,  to 
be  treated  with  the  more  reverence  that  he  had  the  less 
aid  to  his  goodness  from  his  slow  understanding.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  angels  might  gather  with  rever- 
ence around  such  a  man,  to  watch  the  gradual  and  tardy 
awakening  of  the  intellect  in  one  in  whom  the  heart  and 
the  conscience  had  been  awake  from  the  first  The 
latter  safe,  they  at  least  would  see  well  that  there  was 
no  fear  for  the  former.  Intelligence  is  a  consequence  oi 
love ;  nor  is  there  any  true  intelligence  without  it. 

But  I  could  not  help  feeUng  keenly  the  contrast  when 
I  went  from  his  warm,  comfortable,  well-defended  cham- 
ber, in  which  every  appliance  that  could  alleviate  suffer- 
ing or  aid  recovery  was  at  hand,  like  a  castle  well 
appointed  with  arms  and  engines  against  the  inroads  of 
winter  and  his  yet  colder  ally  Death, — when,  I  say,  I 
went  from  his  chamber  to  the  cottage  of  the  Tomkinses, 
and  found  it,  as  it  were,  lying  open  and  bare  to  the 
enemy.  What  holes  and  cracks  there  were  about  the 
door,  through  which  the  fierce  wind  rushed  at  once  into 
the  room  to  attack  the  aged  feet  and  hands  and  throats ! 
There  were  no  defences  of  threefold  draperies,  and  no 
soft  carpet  on  the  brick  floor, — only  a  small  rug  which 
my  sister  had  carried  them  laid  down  before  a  weak- 
eyed  little  fire,  that  seemed  to  despair  of  making  any- 
thing of  it  against  the  huge  cold  that  beleaguered  and 
invaded  the  place.  True,  we  had  had  the  little  cottage 
patched  up.     The  two  Thomas  Weirs  had  been  at  work 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  479 

upon  it  for  a  whole  day  and  a  half  in  the  first  of  the  coU 
weather  this  winter ;  but  it  was  like  putting  the  new  cloth 
on  the  old  garment,  for  fresh  places  had  broken  out, 
and  although  Mrs  Tomkins  had  fought  the  cold  well 
with  what  rags  she  could  spare,  and  an  old  knife,  yet 
such  razor-edged  winds  are  hard  to  keep  out,  and  here 
she  was  now,  lying  in  bed,  and  breathing  hard,  like  the 
sore-pressed  garrison  which  had  retreated  to  its  last  de- 
fence, the  keep  of  the  castle.  Poor  old  Tomkins  sat 
shivering  over  the  little  fire. 

"  Come,  come,  Tomkins  !  this  won't  do,"  I  said,  as  I 
caught  up  a  broken  shovel  that  would  have  let  a  lump 
as  big  as  one's  fist  through  a  hole  in  the  middle  of  it. 
"  iVhy  don't  you  bum  your  coals  in  weather  like  this  ?• 
Where  do  you  keep  them  1 " 

It  made  my  heart  ache  to  see  the  little  heap  in  a  box 
hardly  bigger  than  the  chest  of  tea  my  sister  brought 
from  London  with  her.  I  threw  half  of  it  on  the  fire  at 
once. 

"  Deary  me,  Mr  Walton  !  you  are  wasteful,  sir.  The 
Lord  never  sent  His  good  coals  to  be  used  that  way." 

"  He  did  though,  Tomkins,"  I  answered.  "And  He'll 
send  you  a  little  more  this  evening,  after  I  get  home. 
Keep  yourself  warm,  man.  This  world's  cold  in  winter, 
you  know." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  know  that.  And  I  'm  like  to  know  it 
Morse  afore  long.  She's  going,"  he  said,  pointing  over 
his  shoulder  with  his  thumb  towards  the  bed  where  his 
wife  lay. 

I  went  to  her.     I  had  seen  her  several  times  within 


480  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

the  last  few  weeks,  but  had  observed  nothing  to  make 
nie  Consider  her  seriously  ilL  I  now  saw  at  a  glance 
that  Tomkins  was  right.     She  had  not  long  to  live. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  suffering  so  much,  Mrs  Tom- 
kins,"  I  said. 

"  I  don't  suffer  so  wery  much,  sir ;  though  to  be  sure 
it  be  hard  to  get  the  breath  into  my  body,  sir.  And  I 
do  feel  cold-like,  sir." 

"  I  'm  going  home  directly,  and  I  '11  send  you  down 
another  blanket  It 's  much  colder  to-day  than  it  was 
yesterday." 

"  It 's  not  weather-cold,  sir,  wi'  me.  It 's  grave-cold, 
sir.  Blankets  won't  do  me  no  good,  sir.  I  can't  get  it 
out  of  my  head  how  perishing  cold  I  shall  be  when  1  'm 
under  the  mould,  sir ;  though  I  oughtn't  to  mind  it  when 
it's  the  will  o'  God.     It's  only  till  the  resurrection,  sir." 

"  But  it 's  not  the  will  of  God,  Mrs  Tomkins." 

"  Ain't  it,  sir  1     Sure  I  thought  it  was." 

"  You  believe  in  Jesus  Christ,  don't  you,  Mrs  Tom- 
kins?" 

"That  I  do,  sir,  with  all  my  heart  and  souL" 

"  Well,  He  says  that  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth 
in  Him  shall  never  die." 

"  But,  you  know,  sir,  everybody  dies.  I  musi  die, 
and  be  laid  in  the  churchyard,  sir.  And  that's  what  I 
don't  like." 

"  But  I  say  that  is  all  a  mistake.  You  won't  die. 
Your  body  will  die,  and  be  laid  away  out  of  sight ;  but 
you  will  be  awake,  alive,  more  alive  than  you  are  now,  a 
great  dsal." 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  481 

_^ • 

And  here  let  me  interrupt  the  conversation  to  remark 
upon  the  great  mistake  of  teaching  children  that  they 
have  souls.  The  consequence  is,  that  they  think  of  their 
souls  as  of  something  which  is  not  themselves.  For 
what  a  man  has  cannot  be  himself.  Hence,  when  they 
are  told  that  their  souls  go  to  heaven,  they  think  of  their 
selves  as  lying  in  the  grave.  They  ought  to  be  taught 
that  they  have  bodies ;  and  that  their  bodies  die  ;  while 
they  themselves  live  on.  Then  they' will  not  think,  as 
old  Mrs  Tomkins  did,  that  fhey  will  be  laid  in  the  grave. 
It  is  making  altogether  too  much  of  the  body,  and  is 
indicative  of  an  evil  tendency  to  materialism,  that  we 
talk  as  if  we  possessed  souls,  instead  of  being  souls.  We 
should  teach  our  children  to  think  no  more  of  their 
bodies  when  dead  than  they  do  of  their  hair  when  it  is 
cut  off,  or  of  their  old  clothes  when  they  have  done  with 
them. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  sir?" 

*'  Indeed  I  do.  I  don't  know  anything  about  where 
you  will  be.  But  you  will  be  with  God — in  your  Father's 
house,  you  know.     And  that  is  enough,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  surely,  sir.  But  I  wish  you  was  to  be  there  by 
the  bedside  of  me  when  I  was  a-dyin'.  I  can't  help 
bein'  summat  skeered  at  it.  It  don't  come  nat'ral  to  me, 
like.  I  ha'  got  used  to  this  old  bed  here,  cold  as  it  has 
been — many 's  the  night — wi'  my  good  man  there  by  the 
side  of  me." 

"  Send  for  me,   Mrs  Tomkins,  any  moment,  day  or 

flight,  and  I  '11  be  with  you  directly." 

^^  I  think,  sir,  if  I  had  a  hold  ov  you  i'  the  one  hand, 

2  u 


^82  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

. • .- 

and  my  man  there,  the  Lord  bless  him,  i'  the  other,  I 
<;ould  go  comfortable." 

"  I  '11  come  the  minute  you  send  for  me — ^just  to  keep 
you  in  mind  that  a  better  friend  than  I  am  is  holding 
you  all  the  time,  though  you  mayn't  feel  His  hands.  If 
it  is  some  comfort  to  have  hold  of  a  human  friend,  think 
that  a  friend  who  is  more  than  man,  a  divine  friend,  has 
a  hold  of  you,  who  knows  all  your  fears  and  pains,  and 
sees  how  natural  they  are,  and  can  just  with  a  word,  or 
a  touch,  or  a  look  into  your  soul,  keep  them  from  going 
one  hair's-breadth  too  far.  He  loves  us  up  to  all  our 
need,  just  because  we  need  it,  and  He  is  all  love  to  give." 

"  But  I  can't  help  thinking,  sir,  that  I  wouldn't  be 
troublesome.  He  has  such  a  deal  to  look  after !  And 
I  don't  see  how  He  can  think  of  everybody,  at  every 
minute,  like.  I  don't  mean  that  He  will  let  anything  go 
wrong.  But  He  might  forget  an  old  body  like  me  for  a 
minute,  like." 

"  You  would  need  to  be  as  wise  as  He  is  before  you 
could  see  how  He  does  it.  But  you  must  believe  more 
than  you  can  understand.  It  is  only  common  sense  to 
do  so.  Think  how  nonsensical  it  would  be  to  suppose 
that  one  who  could  make  everything,  and  keep  the  whole 
going  as  He  does,  shouldn't  be  able  to  help  forgetting. 
It  would  be  unreasonable  to  think  that  He  must  forget 
because  you  couldn't  understand  how  He  could  remem- 
ber. I  think  it  is  as  hard  for  Him  to  forget  anything  as  it 
is  for  us  to  remember  everything ;  for  forgetting  comes 
of  weakness,  and  from  ouf  not  being  fiiiished  yet,  and 
He  is  all  strength  and  all  perfection." 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  48.^ 

"  Then  you  think,  sir,  He  never  forgets  anything  1 " 

I  knew  by  the  trouble  that  gathered  on  the  old 
woman's  brow  what  kind  of  thought  was  passing  through 
hei  mind.  But  I  let  her  go  on,  thinking  so  to  help  her 
the  better.  She  paused  for  one  moment  only,  and  then 
resumed — much  interrupted  by  the  shortness  of  her 
breathing, 

"  When  I  was  brought  to  bed  first,"  she  said,  "  it  was 
o"  twins,  sir.  And  oh  !  sir,  it  was  very  hard.  As  I  said 
to  my  man  after  I  got  my  head  up  a  bit,  '  Tomkins,'  says 
I,  '  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  ;iwo  on  'em  cryin' 
and  cryin',  and  you  next  to  nothin'  to  give  'em ;  till 
their  cryin'  sticks  to  your  brain,  and  ye  hear  'em  when 
they  're  fast  asleep,  one  on  each  side  o'  you.'  Well,  sir, 
I  'm  ashamed  to  confess  it  even  to  you ;  and  what  the 
Lord  can  think  of  me,  I  don't  know." 
.  "  I  would  rather  confess  to  Him  than  to  the  best 
friend  I  ev«r  had,"  I  said ;  "  I  am  so  sure  that  He  will 
make  every  excuse  for  me  that  ought  to  be  made.  And 
a  friend  can't  always  do  that  He  can't  know  all  about 
it.  And  you  can't  tell  him  all,  because  you  don't  know 
all  yourself.     He  does." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  tell  you,  sir.  Would  you  believe 
it,  sir,  I  wished  'em  dead  1  Just  to  get  the  wailin'  of 
them  out  o'  my  head,  I  wished  'em  dead.  In  the  court- 
yard o'  the  squire's  house,  where  my  Tomkins  worked 
on  the  home-farm,  there  was  an  old  draw-well.  It  wasn't 
used,  and  there  was  a  lid  to  it,  with  a  hole  in  it,  through 
which  you  could  put  a  good  big  stone.  And  Tomkins 
once  took  me  to  it,  and,  without  tellin'  me  what  it  waS; 


4^4  ANNALS    OP    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

he  put  a  stone  in,  and  told  me  to  hearken.  And  I 
hearkened,  but  I  heard  nothing,  as  I  told  ,him  so.  *  But,' 
says  he,  '  hearken,  lass.'  And  in  a  little  while  there 
come  a  blast  o'  noise  like  from  somevvheres.  '  What 's 
that,  Tomkins  1 '  I  said.  *  That 's  the  ston','  says  he,  *  a 
strikin'  on  the  water  down  that  there  well.'  And  I 
turned  sick  at  the  thought  of  it.  And  it 's  down  there 
that  I  wished  the  darlin's  that  God  had  sent  me ;  for 
there  they  'd  be  quiet." 

"  Mothers  are  often  a  little  out  of  their  minds  at  such 
times,  Mrs  Tomkins.     And  so  were  you." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  But  I  must  tell  you  another 
thing.  The  Sunday  afore  that,  the  parson  had  been 
preachin'  about  '  Suffer  little  children,'  you  know,  sir, 
•  to  come  unto  me.'  I  suppose  that  was  what  put  it  in 
my  head ;  but  I  fell  asleep  wi'  nothin'  else  in  my  head 
but  the  cries  o'  the  infants  and  the  sound  o'  the  ston'  in 
the  draw-well.  And  I  dreamed  that  I  had  one  o'  them 
under  each  arm,  cryin'  dreadful,  and  was  walkin'  across 
the  court  the  way  to  the  draw-well ;  when  all  at  once  a 
man  come  up  to  me  and  held  out  his  two  hands,  and 
said,  '  Gie  me  my  childer.'  And  I  was  in  a  terrible  fear. 
And  I  gave  him  first  one  and  then  the  t'other,  and  he 
took  them,  and  one  laid  its  head  on  one  shoulder  of  him, 
and  t'other  upon  t'other,  and  they  stopped  their  cryin', 
and  fell  fast  asleep  ;  and  away  he  walked  wi'  them  into 
the  dark,  and  I  saw  him  no  more.  And  then  I  awoke 
cryin',  I  didn't  know  why.  And  I  took  my  twins  to  me, 
and  my  breasts  was  full,  if  ye  '11  excuse  me,  sir.  And 
my  heiirt  was  as  full  o'  Igye  to  tl:iem.     And  they  hardl) 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  485 


cried  worth  mentionin'  again.  But  afore  they  was  two 
year  old,  they  both  died  o'  the  brown  chytis,  sir.  And 
I  think  that  He  took  tliem." 

"He  did  take  them,  Mrs  Tomkins;  and  you'll  see 
them  again  soon." 

"  But,  if  He  never  forgets  anything " 

"  I  didn't  say  that.  I  think  He  can  do  what  He 
pleases.  And  if  He  pleases  to  forget  anything,  then  He 
can  forget  it.  And  I  think  that  is  what  He  does  with 
our  sins — that  is,  after  He  has  got  them  away  from  us, 
once  we  are  clean  from  them  altogether.  It  would  be  a 
dreadful  thing  if  He  forgot  them  before  that,  and  left 
them  sticking  fast  to  us  and  defiling  us.  How  then 
should  we  ever  be  made  clean? — What  else  does  the 
prophet  Isaiah  mean  when  he  says,  *  Thou  hast  cast  my 
sins  behind  Thy  back  ? '  Is  not  that  where  He  does  not 
choose  to  see  them  any  more  1  They  are  not  pleasant  to 
Him  to  think  of  any  more  than  to  us.  It  is  as  if  He  said 
— *  I  will  not  think  of  that  any  more,  for  my  sister  will 
never  do  it  again,'  and  so  He  throws  it  behind  His  back." 

"  They  are  good  words,  sir.  I  could  not  bear  Him  to 
think  of  me  and  my  sins  both  at  once." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  words  of  Macbeth, 
"  To  know  my  deed,  'twere  best  not  know  myself." 

The  old  woman  lay  quiet  after  this,  relieved  in  mind, 
though  not  iu  body,  by  the  communication  she  had 
made  with  so  much  difficulty,  and  I  hastened  home  to 
send  some  coals  and  other  things,  and  then  call  upon 
Dr  Duncan,  lest  he  should  not  know  that  his  patient 
was  so  much  worse  as  I  had  found  her. 


486  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

From  Dr  Duncan's  I  went  to  see  old  Samuel  Weir, 
who  likewise  was  ailing.  The  bitter  weather  was  telling 
chiefly  upon  the  aged.  I  found  him  in  bed,  under  the 
old  embroidery.  No  one  was  in  the  room  with  him. 
He  greeted  me  with  a  withered  smile,  sweet  and  true, 
although  no  flash  of  white  teeth  broke  forth  to  light  up 
the  welcome  of  the  aged  head. 

"  Are  you  not  lonely,  Mr  Weir  1 " 

"  No,  sir.  I  don't  know  as  ever  I  was  less  lonely. 
I  've  got  my  stick,  you  see,  sir,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
thorn  stick  which  lay  beside  him. 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,"  I  returned,  knowing 
that  the  old  man's  gently  humorous  sayings  always  meant 
something. 

"  You  see,  sir,  when  I  want  anything,  I  Ve  only  got 
to  knock  on  the  floor,  and  up  comes  my  son  out  of  the 
shop.  And  then  again,  when  I  knock  at  the  door  of 
the  house  up  there,  my  Father  opens  it  and  looks  out. 
So  I  have  both  my  son  on  earth  and  my  Father  in 
heaven,  and  what  can  an  old  man  want  more  ]" 

**  What,  indeed,  could  any  one  want  more  ? " 

"  It 's  very  strange,"  the  old  man  resumed  after  a 
pause,  "  but  as  1  lie  here,  after  I've  had  my  tea,  and  it 
is  almost  dark,  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  was  a  child  again. 
They  say  old  age  is  a  second  childhood;  but  before  I 
grew  so  old,  I  used  to  think  that  meant  only  that  a  man 
was  helpless  and  silly  again,  as  he  used  to  be  when  he 
was  a  child :  I  never  thought  it  meant  that  a  man  felt 
like  a  child  again,  as  light-hearted  and  untroubled  as  I 
do  now." 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  487 

•*  Well,  I  suspect  that  is  not  what  people  do  mean  when 
they  say  so.  But  I  am  very  glad — ^you  don't  know  ]io\* 
pleased  it  makes  me  to  hear  that  you  feel  so.  I  will 
•hope  to  fare  in  the  same  way  when  my  time  comes." 

"  Indeed,  I  hope  you  will,  sir ;  for  I  am  main  and 
happy.  Just  before  you  came  in  now,  I  had  really  for- 
gotten that  I  was  a  toothless  old  man,  and  thought  I 
was  lying  here  waiting  for  my  mother  to  come  in  and  say 
good-night  to  me  before  I  went  to  sleep.  Wasn't  that 
curious,  when  I  never  saw  my  mother,  as  I  told  you 
before,  sirl" 

"  It  was  very  curious." 

**  But  I  have  no  end  of  fancies.  Only  when  I  begin 
to  think  about  it,  I  can  always  tell  when  they  are  fancies, 
and  they  never  put  me  out.  There 's  one  I  see  often — 
a  man  down  on  his  knees  at  that  cupboard  nigh  the 
floor  there,  searching  and  searching  for  somewhat.  And 
I  wish  he  would  just  turn  round  his  face  once  for  a 
moment  that  I  might  see  him.  I  have  a  notion  always 
it 's  my  own  father." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  that  fancy,  now,  Mr  Weir?" 

"  I  've  often  thought  about  it,  sir,  but  I  never  could 
account  for  it.  I  'm  none  willing  to  think  it 's  a  ghost ; 
for  what 's  the  good  of  it  ]  I  've  turned  out  that  cup- 
board over  and  over,  and  there 's  nothing  there  I  don't 
know.'* 

"  You  're  not  afraid  of  it,  are  you  1 " 

**  No,  sir.  Why  should  I  be  1  I  never  did  it  no  harm. 
And  God  can  surely  take  care  of  me  from  all  sorts." 

My  readers  must  not  think  anything  is  going  to  come 


488  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

out  of  this  strange  illusion  of  the  old  man's  brain.  1 
questioned  him  a  little  more  about  it,  and  came  simply 
to  the  conclusion,  that  when  he  was  a  child  he  had 
found  the  door  open  and  had  wandered  into  the  house,, 
at  the  time  uninhabited,  had  peeped  in  at  the  door  oi 
the  same  room  where  he  now  lay,  and  had  actually  seen 
a  man  in  the  position  he  described,  half  in  the  cupboard, 
searching  for  something.  His  mind  had  kept  the  im- 
pression after  the  conscious  memory  had  lost  its  hold  of 
the  circumstance,  and  now  revived  it  under  certain  phy- 
sical conditions.  It  was  a  glimpse  out  of  one  of  the 
many  stories  which  haunted  the  old  mansion.  But  there 
he  lay  like  a  child,  as  he  said,  fearless  even  of  such 
usurpations  upon  his  senses. 

I  think  instances  of  quiet  unj(?^conscious  faith  are 
more  common  than  is  generally  supposed.  Few  have 
along  with  it  the  genial  communicative  impulse  of  old 
Samuel  Weir,  which  gives  the  opportunity  of  seeing  into 
their  hidden  world.  He  seemed  to  have  been,  and  to 
have  remained,  a  child,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word. 
He  had  never  had  much  trouble  with  himself,  for  he  was 
of  a  kindly,  gentle,  tnisting  nature;  and  his  will  had 
never  been  called  upon  to  exercise  any  strong  effort  to 
enable  him  to  walk  in  the  straight  path.  Nor  had  his 
intellect,  on  the  other  hand,  while  capable  enough,  ever 
been  so  active  as  to  suggest  difficulties  to  his  faith,  leav- 
ing him,  even  theoretically,  far  nearer  the  truth  than 
those  who  start  objections  for  their  own  sakes,  Uking  to 
feel  themselves  in  a  position  of  supposed  antagonism  to 
Uie  generally  acknowledged  sources  of  illumination.    Foi 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  489 


faith  is  in  itself  a  light  that  lightens  even  the  intellect , 

and  hence  the  shield  of  the  complete  soldier  of  God,  the 

shield  of  faith,  is  represented  by  Spenser  as  "  framed  all 

of  diamond,  perfect,  pure,  and  clean,"  (the  power  of  the 

diamond  to  absorb  and  again  radiate  light  being  no 

poetic  fiction,  but  a  well-known  scientific  fact,)  whose 

light  falling  upon  any  enchantment  or  false  appearance, 

destroys  it  utterly  :  for 

"  all  that  was  not  such  as  seemed  in  sight. 
Before  that  shield  did  fade,  and  suddaine  fall." 

Old  Rogers  had  passed  through  a  very  much  larger 
experience.  Many  more  difficulties  had  come  to  him, 
and  he  had  met  them  in  his  own  fashion  and  overcome 
them.  For  while  there  is  such  a  thing  as  truth,  the 
mind  that  can  honestly  beget  a  difficulty  must  at  the 
same  time  be  capable  of  receiving  that  light  of  the  truth 
which  annihilates  the  difficulty,  or  at  least  of  receiving 
enough  to  enable  it  to  foresee  vaguely  some  solution, 
for  a  full  perception  of  which  the  intellect  may  not  be  as 
yet  competent.  By  every  such  victory  Old  Rogers  had 
enlarged  his  being,  ever  becoming  more  childlike  and 
faithful ;  so  that,  while  the  childlikeness  of  Weir  was  the 
childlikeness  of  a  child,  that  of  Old  Rogers  was  the  child- 
likeness  of  a  man,  in  which  submission  to  God  is  not 
only  a  gladness,  but  a  conscious  will  and  choice.  But 
as  the  safety  of  neither  depended  on  his  own  feelings, 
but  on  the  love  of  God  who  was  working  in  him,  we  may 
well  leave  all  such  differences  of  nature  and  education 
to  the  care  of  Him  who  first  made  the  men  different, 
and  then  brought  different  conditions  out  of  them.     The 


490  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

one  thing  is,  whether  we  are  letting  God  have  His  own 
way  with  us,  following  where  He  leads,  learning  the  les- 
sons He  gives  us. 

I  wished  that  Mr  Stoddart  had  been  with  me  during 
these  two  visits.  Perhaps  he  might  have  seen  that  the 
education  of  life  was  a  marvellous  thing,  and,  even  in 
the  poorest  intellectual  results,  far  more  full  of  poetry 
and  wonder  than  the  outcome  of  that  constant  watering 
with  the  watering-pot  of  self-education  which,  dissociated 
from  the  duties  of  life  and  the  influences  of  his  fellows, 
had  made  of  him  what  he  was.  But  I  doubt  if  he  would 
have  seen  it. 

A  week  had  elapsed  from  the  night  I  had  sat  up  with 
Gerard  Weir,  and  his  mother  had  not  risen  from  her  bed, 
nor  did  it  seem  likely  she  would  ever  rise  again.  On  a 
Friday  I  went  to  see  her,  just  as  the  darkness  was  be- 
ginning to  gather.  The  fire  of  life  was  burning  itself 
out  fast.  It  glowed  on  her  cheeks,  it  burned  in  her 
hands,  it  blazed  in  her  eyes.  But  the  fever  had  left  her 
mind.  That  was  cool,  oh,  so  cool,  now  !  Those  fierce 
tropical  storms  of  passion  had  passed  away,  and  nothing 
of  life  was  lost  Revenge  had  passed  away,  but  revenge 
is  of  death,  and  deadly.  Forgiveness  had  taken  its 
place,  and  forgiveness  is  the  giving,  and  so  the  receiving 
of  life.  Gerard,  his  dear  little  head  starred  with  sticking- 
plaster,  sat  on  her  bed,  looking  as  quietly  happy  as  child 
could  look,  over  a  wooden  horse  with  cylindrical  body 
and  jointless  legs,  covered  with  an  eruption  of  red  and 
black  spots. — Is  it  the  ignorance  or  the  imagination  of 
children  that  makes  them  so  easily  pleased  with  the 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  49? 


merest  hint  at  representation  1     I  suspect  the  one  helps 

the  other  towards  that  most  desirable  result,  satisfaction. 

■ — But  he   dropped  it  when   he  saw  me,  in  a  way  so 

abandoning  that — comparing  small  things  with  great — it 

called  to  my  mind  those  lines  of  Milton  : — 

"  From  his  slack  hand  the  garland  wreathed  for  Eve, 
Down  dropt,  and  all  the  faded  roses  shed." 

The  quiet  child  ^tmg  himself  upon  my  neck,  and  the 
mother's  face  gleamed  with  pleasure. 

"  Dear  boy  ! "  I  said,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  so 
much  better.** 

For  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  shown  such  a  revival 
of  energy.  He  had  been  quite  sweet  when  he  saw  me, 
but,  until  this  evening,  Hstless. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  quite  well  now."  And  he  put 
his  hand  up  to  his  head. 

«  Does  it  ache  1 " 

"  Not  much  now.     The  doctor  says  I  had  a  bad  fall." 

"  So  you  had,  my  child.  But  you  will  soon  be  well 
again." 

The  mother's  face  was  turned  aside,  yet  I  could  see 
one  tear  forcing  its  way  from  under  her  closed  eyelid. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  it,"  he  answered.  "  Mammy  is 
so  kind  to  me  !  She  lets  me  sit  on  her  bed  as  long  as 
I  like." 

"  That  is  nice.  But  just  run  to  auntie  in  the  next 
room.  I  think  your  mammy  would  like  to  talk  to  me 
for  a  little  while." 

The  child  hurried  off  the  bed,  and  ran  with  over- 
flow'ng  obedience. 


49*  ANNALS    OF    A  ^QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

*'  I  can  even  think  of  hifn  now,"  said  the  mother, 
*•  without  going  into  a  passion.  I  hope  God  will  for- 
give liim.     J  do.     I  think  He  will  forgive  me." 

'•'  Di'i  you  ever  hear,"  I  asked,  "  of  Jesus  refusing 
anyjody  th?.t  wanted  kindness  from  Him  %  He  wouldn't 
always  do  exactly  what  they  asked  Him,  because  thai 
would  sometimes  be  of  no  use,  and  sometimes  would 
even  be  wrong ;  but  He  never  pushed  them  away  from 
Him,  never  repulsed  their  approach  to  Him.  For  the 
sake  of  His  disciples,  He  made  the  Syrophenician 
woman  suffer  a  little  while,  but  only  to  give  her  such 
praise  after\>'ards  and  such  a  granting  of  her  prayer  as 
is  just  Vv'onderful." 

She  said  nothing  for  a  little  while ;  then  murmured, 

"  Shali  I  have  to  be  ashamed  to  all  eternity  %  I  do 
noi  want  noi'  to  be  ashamed ;  but  shall  I  never  be  able 
to  be  like  other  people — in  heaven  I  mean?" 

"  If  He  is  satisfied  with  you,  you  need  not  think 
anything  more  about  yourself.  If  He  lets  you  once 
kiss  His  feet,  you  won't  care  to  think  about  other 
people's  opinion  of  you  even  in  heaven.  But  things 
will  go  very  differently  there  from  here.  For  everybody 
there  will  be  more  or  less  ashamed  of  himself,  and  will 
think  worse  cf  himself  than  he  does  of  any  one  else. 
If  trouble  about  your  past  life  were  to  show  itself  on 
your  face  there,  they  would  all  run  to  comfort  you, 
trying  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  telling  you  that  you 
must  think  about  yourself  as  He  thinks  about  you ;  for 
what  He  thinks  is  the  rule,  because  it  is  the  infallible 
right  way.     But  perhaps  rather,  they  would  tell  you  to 


OLE    MRS    TOMKINS.  497 

leave  that  to  Him  who  has  taken  away  our  sins,  and 
not  trouble  yourself  any  more  about  it.  But  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  don't  think  such  thoughts  will  come  to  you  at  all 
Avhen  once  you  have  seen  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ.  You 
will  be  so  filled  with  His  glory  and  goodness  and  grace, 
that  you  will  just  live  in  Him  and  not  in  yourself  at  all." 

"  Will  He  let  us  tell  Him  anything  we  please  1 " 

*'  He  lets  you  do  that  now :  surely  He  will  not  be 
less  our  God,  our  friend  there." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  how  soon  He  takes  me  now ! 
Only  there's  that  poor  child  that  I  've  behaved  so  badly 
to  !  I  wish  I  could  take  him  with  me.  I  have  no  time 
to  make  it  up  to  him  here." 

"  You  must  wait  till  he  comes.  He  won't  think 
hardly  of  yOu.     There 's  no  fear  of  that." 

"  What  will  become  of  him,  though  1  I  can't  bear 
the  idea  of  burdening  my  father  with  him." 

"  Your  father  will  be  glad  to  have  him,  I  know.  He 
will  feel  it  a  privilege  to  do  something  for  your  sake. 
But  the  boy  will  do  him  good.  If  he  does  not  want 
him,  I  will  take  him  myself." 

"  Oh  !  thank  you,  thank  you,  sir." 

A  burst  of  tears  followed. 

"  He  has  often  done  me  good,"  I  said. 

"Who,  sir?     My  father?" 

"  No.     Your  son." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean,  sir.** 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say.  The  words  and  behaviour 
of  your  lovely  boy  have  both  roused  and  comforted  my 
heart  again  and  again." 


494  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

She  burst  again  into  tears.  , 

"That  is  good  to  hear.  To  think  of  your  saying 
that !  The  poor  little  innocent  1  Then  it  isn't  all 
punishment  ? " 

"  If  it  were  all  punishment,  we  should  perish  utterly. 
He  is  your  punishment ;  but  look  in  what  a  lovely  loving 
form  your  punishment  has  come,  and  say  whether  God 
has  been  good  to  you  or  not." 

"  If  I  had  only  received  my  punishment  humbly, 
things  would  have  been  very  different  now.  But  I  do 
take  it — at  least  I  want  to  take  it — just  as  He  would 
have  me  take  it.  I  will  bear  anything  He  likes.  I 
suppose  I  must  die  % " 

"  I  think  He  means  you  to  die  now.  You  are  ready 
for  it  now,  I  think.  You  have  wanted  to  die  for  a  long 
time  ;  but  you  were  not  ready  for  it  before." 

"  And  now  I  want  to  live  for  my  boy.  But  His  will 
be  done." 

"  Amen.  There  is  no  such  prayer  in  the  universe 
as  that.  It  means  everything  best  and  most  beautiful 
Thy  will,  O  God,  evermore  be  done." 

She  lay  silent.  A  tap  came  to  the  chamber-door.  It 
was  Mary,  who  nursed  her  sister  and  attended  to  the 
shop. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  here 's  a  little  girl  come  to  say 
that  Mrs  Tomkins  is  dying,  and  wants  to  see  you." 

*'  Then  I  must  say  good-night  to  you,  Catherine.  I 
will  see  you  to-morrow  morning.  Think  about  old  Mrs 
Tomkins;  she's  a  good  old  soul;  and  when  you  find 
your  heart  drawn  to  her  in  the  trouble  of  death,  then 


OLD    MRS    TOMKINS.  495 

lift  it  up  to  God  for  her,  that  He  will  please  to  comfort 
and  support  her,  and  make  her  happier  than  health — 
stronger  than  strength,  taking  off  the  old  worn  garment 
of  her  body,  and  putting  upon  her  the  garment  of  sal- 
vation, which  will  be  a  grand  new  body,  like  that  the 
Saviour  had  when  He  rose  again." 

"  I  will  try.     I  will  think  about  her." 

For  I  thought  this  would  be  a  help  to  prepare  her 
for  her  own  death.  In  thinking  lovingly  about  others, 
we  think  healthily  about  ourselves.  And  the  things 
she  thought  of  for  the  comfort  of  Mrs  Tomkins,  would 
return  to  comfort  herself  in  the  prospect  of  her  own 
end,  when  perhaps  she  might  not  be  able  to  think  them 
out  for  herself 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CALM  AND  STORM, 

UT  of  the  two,  Catherine  had  herself  to  go 
first.  Again  and  again  was  I  sent  for  to  say 
farewell  to  Mrs  Tomkins,  and  again  and 
again  I  returned  home  learing  her  asleep, 
and  for  the  time  better.  But  on  a  Saturday  evening,  as 
1  sat  by  my  vestry-fire,  pondering  on  many  things,  and 
Uying  to  make  myself  feel  that  they  were  as  God  saw 
them  and  not  as  they  appeared  to  me,  young  Tom  came 
to  me  with  the  news  that  his  sister  seemed  much  worse, 
321:1  his  father  would  be  much  obliged  if  I  would  go  and 
sf  f.  her.  I  sent  Tom  on  before,  because  I  wished  to 
fc/'.'3w  alone. 

it  was  a  brilliant  starry  night ;  no  moon,  no  clouds, 
T.o  w:.nd,  nothing  but  stars.  They  seemed  to  lean  down 
trr.vards  the  earth,  as  I  have  seen  them  since  in  more 
f  otii'.iem  regions.  It  was,  indeed,  a  glorious  night.  That 
iSt  l  knew  it  was ;  I  did  not  feel  that  it  was.     For  the 


CALM    AND    STORM.  497 


aealh  which  I  went  to  be  near,  came,  with  a  strange 
sense  of  separation,  between  me  and  the  nature  around 
me.  I  felt  as  if  nature  knew  nothing,  felt  nothing, 
meant  nothing,  did  not  belong  to  humanity  at  all ;  for 
here  was  death,  and  there  shone  the  stars.  I  was  wror  g, 
as  I  knew  afterwards. 

I  had  had  very  little  knowledge  of  the  external  shov/s 
of  death.  Strange  as  it  may  appear,  I  had  never  3-et 
seen  a  fellow-creature  pass  beyond  the  call  of  his  fellow- 
mortals.  I  had  not  even  seen  my  father  die.  And  the 
thought  was  oppressive  to  me.  "  To  think,"  I  said  to 
myself,  as  I  walked  over  the  bridge  to  the  village-stPiet 
— "to  think  that  the  one  moment  the  person  is  here, 
and  the  next — who  shall  say  where  i  for  we  know  nothing 
of  the  region  beyond  the  grave  !  Not  even  our  rirsen 
Lord  thought  fit  to  bring  back  from  Hades  any  news  for 
the  human  family  standing  straining  their  eyes  after  their 
brothers  and  sisters  that  have  vanished  in  the  dark. 
Surely  it  is  well,  all  well,  although  we  know  nothing, 
save  that  our  Lord  has  been  there,  knows  all  about  it, 
and  does  not  choose  to  tell  us.  Welcome  ignoraro,-, 
then  !  the  ignorance  in  which  he  chooses  to  leave  us.  I 
would  rather  not  know,  if  He  gave  me  my  choice,  I  ut 
preferred  that  I  should  not  know."  And  so  the  oppi  ;s- 
sion  passed  from  me,  and  I  was  free. 

But  little  as  I  knew  of  the  signs  of  the  approach  of 

death,  I  was  certain,  the  moment  I  saw  Catherine,  that 

the  veil  that  hid  the  "  silent  land "  had  begun  to  lift 

slowly  between  her  and  it.     And  for  a  moment  I  almost 

envied  her  that  she  was  so  soon  to  see  and  know  that 

2  I 


40S  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

after  which  OTir  blindness  and  ignorance  were  wonderiig 
and  hungering.  She  could  hardly  speak.  She  looked 
more  patient  than  calm.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room 
but  that  of  the  fire,  which  flickered  flashing  and  fading, 
now  lighting  up  the  troubled  eye,  and  now  letting  a 
shadow  of  the  coming  repose  fall  gently  over  it.  Thomas 
sat  by  the  fire  with  the  child  on  his  knee,  both  looking 
fixedly  into  the  glow.  Gerard's  natural  mood  was  so 
quiet  and  earnest,  that  the  solemnity  about  him  did  not 
oppress  him.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  present  at  some 
religious  observance  of  which  he  felt  more  than  he  under- 
stood, and  his  childish  peace  was  in  no  wise  inharmo- 
nious with  the  awful  silence  of  the  coming  change.  He 
was  no  more  disquieted  at  the  presence  of  death  than 
the  stars  were. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  the  lovely  girl — to  leave  the 
fair  world  still  young,  because  a  selfish  man  had  seen  that 
she  was  fair !  No  time  can  change  the  relation  of  cause 
and  effect  The  poison  that  operates  ever  so  slowly  is 
yet  poison,  and  yet  slays.  And  that  man  was  now  mur- 
dering her,  with  weapon  long-reaching  from  out  of  the 
past.  But  no,  thank  God  !  this  was  not  the  end  of  her. 
Though  there  is  woe  for  that  man  by  whom  the  offence 
cometh,  yet  there  is  provision  for  the  offence.  There  is 
One  who  bringeth  light  out  of  darkness,  joy  out  of  sor- 
row, humility  out  of  wrong.  Back  to  the  Father's  house 
we  go  with  the  sorrows  and  sins  which,  instead  of  inherit- 
ing the  earth,  we  gathered  and  heaped  upon  our  weary 
shoulders,  and  a  different  Elder  Brother  from  that  angry 
one  who  would  not  receive  the  poor  swine-humbled  pro* 


CALM    AND    STORM.  499 


digal,  takes  the  burden  from  our  shoulders,  and  leads  ua 
into  the  presence  of  the  Good. 

She  put  out  her  hand  feebly,  let  it  lie  in  mine,  looked 
as  if  she  wanted  me  to  sit  down  by  her  bedside,  and 
when  I  did  so,  closed  her  eyes.  She  said  nothing.  Her 
father  was  too  much  troubled  to  meet  me  without  show- 
ing the  signs  of  his  distress,  and  his  was  a  nature  that 
ever  sought  concealment  for  its  emotion;  therefore  he 
sat  still.  But  Gerard  crept  down  from  his  knee,  came 
to  me,  clambered  up  on  mine,  and  laid  his  little  hand 
upon  his  mother's,  which  I  was  holding.  She  opened 
her  eyes,  looked  at  the  child,  shut  them  again,  and  tears 
came  out  from  between  the  closed  lids. 

*'  Has  Gerard  ever  been  baptized  1 "  I  asked  her. 

Her  lips  indicated  a  no. 

"  Then  I  will  be  his  godfather.  And  that  will  be  a 
pledge  to  you  that  I  will  never  lose  sight  of  him." 

She  pressed  my  hand,  and  the  tears  came  faster. 

Believing  with  all  my  heart  that  the  dying  should 
remember  their  dying  Lord,  and  that  the  "  Do  this  in 
remembrance  of  me  "  can  never  be  better  obeyed  than 
when  the  partaker  is  about  to  pass,  supported  by  the 
God  of  his  faith,  through  the  same  darkness  which  lay 
before  our  Lord  when  He  uttered  the  words  and  ap- 
pointed the  symbol,  we  kneeled,  Thomas  and  I,  and 
young  Tom,  who  had  by  this  time  joined  us  with  his 
sister  Mary,  around  the  bed,  and  partook  with  the  dying 
woman  of  the  signs  of  that  death,  wherein  our  Lord  gave 
Himself  entirely  to  us,  to  live  by  His  death,  and  to  the 
Father  of  us  all  in  holiest  sacrifice  as  the  higli-priest  of 


50O  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

US  His  people,  leading  us  to  the  altar  of  a  like  self- 
abnegation.  Upon  what  that  bread  and  that  wine  mean, 
the  sacrifice  of  our  Lord,  the  whole  world  of  humanity 
hangs.     It  is  the  redemption  of  men. 

After  she  had  received  the  holy  sacrament,  she  lay 
still  as  before.  I  heard  her  murmur  once,  "  Lord,  1  do 
not  deserve  it  But  I  do  love  Thee."  And  about  two 
hours  after,  she  quietly  breathed  her  last.  We  all  kneeled, 
and  I  thanked  the  Father  of  us  aloud  that  He  had  taken 
her  to  Himself.  Gerard  had  been  fast  asleep  on  his 
aunt's  lap,  and  she  had  put  him  to  bed  a  little  before. 
Surely  he  slept  a  deeper  sleep  than  his  mother's ;  for  had 
she  not  awaked  even  as  she  fell  asleep  1 

When  I  came  out  once  more,  I  knew  better  what  the 
stars  meant.  They  looked  to  me  now  as  if  they  knew 
all  about  death,  and  therefore  could  not  be  sad  to  the 
eyes  of  men;  as  if  that  unsympathetic  look  they  wore 
came  from  this,  that  they  were  made  like  the  happy 
truth,  and  not  like  our  fears. 

But  soon  the  solemn  feeling  of  repose,  the  sense  that 
the  world  and  all  its  cares  would  thus  pass  into  nothing, 
vanished  in  its  turn.  For  a  moment  I  had  been,  as  it 
were,  walking  on  the  shore  of  the  Eternal,  where  the 
tide  of  time  had  left  me  in  its  retreat.  Far  away  across 
the  level  sands  I  heard  it  moaning,  but  I  stood  on  the 
firm  ground  of  truth,  and  heeded  it  not.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments more  it  was  raving  around  me ;  it  had  carried  me 
av/ay  from  my  rest,  and  I  was  filled  with  the  noise  of  its 
cares. 

Fof  when  I  returned  home,  my  sister  told  me  that  Old 


CALM    AND   STORM.  5©! 

Rogers  had  called,  and  seemed  concerned  not  to  find 
me  at  home.  He  would  have  gone  to  fnd  me,  my 
sister  said,  had  I  been  anywhere  but  by  a  deathbed.  He- 
would  not  leave  any  message,  however,  saying  he  would 
call  in  the  morning. 

I  thought  it  better  to  go  to  his  house.  The  stars  were 
still  shining  as  brightly  as  before,  but  a  strong  forebod- 
ing of  trouble  filled  my  mind,  and  once  more  the  stars 
were  far  away,  and  lifted  me  no  nearer  to  "  Him  who 
made  the  seven  stars  and  Orion."  When  I  examined 
myself,  I  could  give  no  reason  for  my  sudden  fearfulness, 
save  this :  that  as  I  went  to  Catherine's  house,  I  had 
passed  Jane  Rogers  on  her  way  to  her  father's,  and 
having  just  greeted  her,  had  gone  on;  but,  as  it  now 
came  back  upon  me,  she  had  looked  at  me  strangely 
—  that  is,  with  some  significance  in  her  face  which 
conveyed  nothing  to  me ;  and  now  her  father  had  been 
to  seek  me  :  it  must  have  something  to  do  with  Miss 
Oldcastle. 

But  when  I  came  to  the  cottage,  it  was  dark  and  still, 
and  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  rouse  the  weary  man 
from  his  bed.  Indeed  it  was  past  eleven,  as  I  found  to 
my  surprise  on  looking  at  my  watch.  So  I  turned  and 
lingered  by  the  old  mill,  and  fell  a  pondering  on  the 
profusion  of  strength  that  rushed  past  the  wheel  away 
to  the  great  sea,  doing  nothing.  "  Nature,"  I  thought, 
"  does  not  demand  that  power  should  always  be  force. 
Power  itself  must  repose.  He  that  beUeveth  shall  not 
make  haste,  says  the  Bible.  But  it  needs  strength  to 
be  still.     Is  my  faith  not  strong  enough  to  be  stilll"    1 


502  ANNALS    OP    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

looked  up  to  the  heavens  once  more,  and  the  quietness 
of  the  stars  seemed  to  reproach  me.  "  We  are  safe  up 
here,"  they  seemed  to  say  :  "  we  shine,  fearless  and  con- 
fident, for  the  God  who  gave  the  primrose  its  rough 
leaves  to  hide  it  from  the  blast  of  uneven  spring,  hangs 
lis  in  the  awful  hollows  of  space.  We  cannot  fall  out 
of  His  safety.  Lift  up  your  eyes  on  high,  and  behold  ! 
Who  hath  created  these  things — that  bringeth  out  their 
host  by  number  !  He  calleth  them  all  by  names.  By 
the  greatness  of  His  might,  for  that  He  is  strong  in 
power,  not  one  faileth.  Why  sayest  thou,  O  Jacob ! 
and  speakest,  O  Israel !  my  way  is  hid  from  the  Lord, 
and  my  judgment  is  passed  over  from  my  God  1" 

The  night  was  very  still;  there  was,  I  thought,  no 
one  awake  within  miles  of  me.  The  stars  seemed  to 
shine  into  me  the  divine  reproach  of  those  glorious 
words.  "  O  my  God  ! "  I  cried,  and  fell  on  my  knees 
by  the  mill-door. 

What  I  tried  to  say  more  I  will  not  say  here.  I  may 
say  that  I  cried  to  God.  What  I  said  to  Him  ought 
not,  cannot  be  repeated  to  another. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  saw  the  door  of  the  mill 
was  open  too,  and  there  in  the  door,  his  white  head 
glimmering,  stood  Old  Rogers,  with  a  look  on  his  face 
as  if  he  had  just  come  down  from  the  mount.  I  started 
to  my  feet,  with  that  strange  feeling  of  something  like 
shame  that  seizes  one  at  the  very  thought  of  other  eyes 
than  those  of  the  Father.  The  old  man  came  forward, 
and  bowed  his  head  with  an  unconscious  expression 
of  humble  dignity,  but  would  have  passed  me  without 


CALM    AND    STORM.  5Q3 


speech,  leaving  the  mill-door  open  behind  him.  I  could 
not  bear  to  part  with  him  thus. 

"  Won't  you  speak  to  me,  Rogers  1 "  I  said. 

He  turned  at  once  with  evident  pleasure. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  was  ashamed  of  having 
intruded  on  you,  and  I  thought  you  would  rather  be 

left  alone.    I  thought — I  thought "  hesitated  the  old 

man,  "  that  you  might  like  to  go  into  the  mill,  for  the 
night 's  cold  out  o'  doors." 

"  Thank  you,  Rogers.  I  won't  now.  I  thought  you 
had  been  in  bed.  How  do  you  come  to  be  out  so 
later' 

"  You  see,  sir,  when  I  'm  in  any  trouble,  it 's  no  use 
to  go  to  bed.  I  can't  sleep.  I  only  keep  the  old  'oman 
wakin'.  And  the  key  o'  the  mill  alius  hangin'  at  the 
back  o'  my  door,  and  knowin'  it  to  be  a  good  place  to 
— to — shut  the  door  in,  I  came  out  as  soon  as  she  was 
asleep ;  but  I  little  thought  to  see  you,  sir." 

*'  I  came  to  find  you,  not  thinking  how  the  time  went. 
Catherine  Weir  is  gone  home." 

"  I  am  right  glad  to  hear  it,  poor  woman.  And  per- 
haps something  will  come  out  now  that  will  help  us." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,"  I  said,  with  hesita- 
tion. 

But  Rogers  made  no  reply. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  in  trouble  to-night.  Can 
I  help  you?"  I  resumed. 

"  If  you  can  help  yourself,  sir,  you  can  help  me.  But 
]  have  no  right  to  say  so.  Only,  if  a  pair  of  old  eyes 
be  not  blind,  a  man  may  pray  to  God  about  anything 


504  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

he  sees.  I  was  prayin'  hard  about  you  in  there,  sir^ 
while  you  was  on  your  knees  o'  the  other  side  o'  the 
door." 

I  could  partly  guess  what  the  old  man  meant,  and  I 
could  not  ask  him  for  further  explanation. 

"  What  did  you  want  to  see  me  about  ? "  I  inquired. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"  I  daresay  it  was  very  foolish  of  me,  sir.  But  I  just 
wanted  to  tell  you  that — our  Jane  was  down  here  from 
the  Hall  this  arternoon " 

"  I  passed  her  on  the  bridge.     Is  she  quite  well  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,  sir.     You  know  that 's  not  the  point" 

The  old  man's  tone  seemed  to  reprove  me  for  va\n 
words,  and  I  held  my  peace. 

"  The  captain  's  there  again." 

An  icy  spear  seemed  to  pass  through  my  heart.  I 
■could  make  no  reply.  The  same  moment  a  cold  wind 
blew  on  me  from  the  open  door  of  the  mill. 

Although  Lear  was  of  course  right  when  he  said, 

*'  The  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else 
Save  what  beats  there," 

yet  it  is  also  true,  that  sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  it? 
greatest  pain,  the  mind  takes  marvellous  notice  of  the 
smallest  things  that  happen  around  it.  This  involves  a 
law  of  which  illustrations  could  be  plentifully  adduced 
from  Shakespeare  himself,  nanr.ely,  that  the  intellectual 
part  of  the  mind  can  go  on  working  with  strange  inde- 
pendence of  the  emotional. 

From    the   door  of  the   mill,  as   from   a  sepulchral 


CALM    AND    STORM.  505 

cavern,  blew  a  cold  wind  like  the  very  breath  of  death 
upon  me,  just  when  that  pang  shot,  in  absolute  pain,' 
.  through  my  heart.  For  a  wind  had  arisen  from  behind 
the  mill,  and  we  were  in  its  shelter  save  where  a  window 
behind  and  the  door  beside  me  allowed  free  passage  to 
the  first  of  the  coming  storm. 

I  believed  I  turned  away  from  the  old  man  without 
a  word.  He  made  no  attempt  to  detain  me.  Whether 
he  went  back  into  his  closet,  the  old  mill,  sacred  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Father  who  honours  His  children,  even  as 
the  church  wherein  many  prayers  went  up  to  Him,  or 
turned  homewards  to  his  cottage  and  his  sleeping  wife, 
I  cannot  tell.  The  first  I  remember  afte»  that  cold 
wind  is,  that  I  was  fighting  with  that  wind,  gathered 
even  to  a  storm,  upon  the  common  where  I  had  dealt 
so  severely  with  her  who  had  this  very  night  gone  into 
that  region  into  which,  as  into  a  waveless  sea,  all  the 
rivers  of  life  rush  and  are  silent.  Is  it  the  sea  of  death] 
No.  The  sea  of  life — a  life  too  keen,  too  refined,  for 
our  senses  to  know  it,  and  therefore  we  call  it  death — 
because  we  cannot  lay  hold  upon  It. 

I  will  not  dwell  upon  my  thoughts  as  I  wandered 
about  over  that  waste.  The  wind  had  risen  to  a  storm 
charged  with  fierce  showers  of  stinging  hail,  which  gave 
a  look  of  gray  wrath  to  the  invisible  wind  as  it  swept 
slanting  by,  and  then  danced  and  scudded  along  the 
levels.  The  next  point  in  that  night  of  pain  is  when  I 
found  myself  standing  at  the  iron  gate  of  Oldcastk 
Hall.  I  had  left  the  common,  passed  my  own  house 
and  the  church,  crossed  the  river,  walked  through  the 


5o6  ANNALS    OP    A    QUIET    NEIGH  »OURHOOD. 

village,  and  was  restored  to  self-consciousness — that  is, 
T  knew  that  I  was  there — only  when  first  I  stood  in  the 
shelter  of  one  of  those  great  pillars  and  the  monster  on 
its  top.  Finding  the  gate  open,  for  they  were  not  pre- 
cise about  having  it  fastened,  I  pushed  it  and  entered. 
The  wind  was  roaring  in  the  trees  as  I  th:.nk  I  have 
never  heard  it  roar  since ;  for  the  hail  clashed  upon  the 
bare  branches  and  twigs,  and  mingled  an  unearthly  hiss 
with  the  roar.  In  the  midst  of  it  the  house  stood  like  a 
tomb,  dark,  silent,  without  one  dim  light  to  show  that 
sleep  and  not  death  ruled  within.  I  could  have  fancied 
that  there  were  no  windows  in  it,  that  it  stood,  like  an 
eyeless  skull,  in  that  gaunt  forest  of  skeleton  trees, 
empty  and  desolate,  beaten  by  the  ungenial  hail,  the 
dead  rain  of  the  country  of  death.  I  passed  round  to 
the  other  side,  stepping  gently  lest  some  ear  might  be 
awake — as  if  any  ear,  even  that  of  Judy's  white  wolf,  could 
have  heard  the  loudest  step  in  such  a  storm.  I  heard 
the  hailstones  crush  between  my  feet  and  the  soft  grass 
of  the  lawn,  but  I  dared  not  stop  to  look  up  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  I  went  on  to  the  staircase  in  the  rock, 
and  by  its  rude  steps,  dangerous  in  the  flapping  of  such 
storm-wings  as  swept  about,  it  that  night,  descended  to 
the  little  grove  below,  around  the  deep-walled  pool. 
Hi^re  the  wind  did  not  reach  me.  It  roared  overhead, 
bu'.,  save  an  occasional  sigh,  as  if  of  sympathy  with 
their  suffering  brethren  abroad  in  the  woild,  the  hermits 
of  this  cell  stood  upright  and  still  around  the  sleeping 
water.  But  my  heart  was  a  well  in  wlilch  a  storm  boiled 
and  raged j|  and  all  that  "pother  o'er  my  head"  was 


CALM    AND    STORM.  507 

peace  itself  compared  to  what  I  felt.  I  sat  down  on 
the  seat  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  where  I  had  first  seer. 
Miss  Oldcastle  reading.  And  then  I  looked  up  to  the 
house.  Yes,  there  was  a  light  there !  It  must  be  in 
her  window.  She  then  could  not  rest  any  more  than  I. 
Sleep  was  driven  from  her  eyes  because  she  must  wed 
the  man  she  would  not ;  while  sleep  was  driven  from 
mine  because  I  could  not  marry  the  woman  I  would. 
Was  that  it  1  No.  My  heart  acquitted  me,  in  part  at 
least,  of  thinking  only  of  my  own  sorrow  in  the  presence 
of  her  greater  distress.  Gladly  would  I  have  given  her 
up  for  ever,  without  a  hope,  to  redeem  her  from  such 
a  bondage.  "  But  it  would  be  to  marry  another  some 
day,"  suggested  the  tormentor  within.  And  then  the 
storm,  which  had  a  little  abated,  broke  out  afresh  in  my 
soul.  But  before  I  rose  from  her  seat  I  was  ready  even 
for  that — at  least  I  thought  so — if  only  I  might  deliver 
her  from  the  all  but  destruction  that  seemed  to  be  im- 
pending over  her.  The  same  moment  in  which  my 
mind  seemed  to  have  arrived  at  the  possibility  of  such 
a  resolution,  I  rose  almost  involuntarily,  and  glancing 
once  more  at  the  dull  light  in  her  window — for  I  did 
not  doubt  that  it  was  her  window,  though  it  was  much 
too  dark  to  discern  the  shape  of  the  house — almost  felt 
my  way  to  the  stair,  and  climbed  again  into  the  storm. 

But  I  was  quieter  now,  and  able  to  go  home.  It  must 
have  been  nearly  morning,  though  at  this  season  of  the 
year  the  morning  is  undefined,  when  I  reached  my  own 
house.  My  sister  had  gone  to  bed,  for  I  could  al\A'ays 
let  myself  in;  nor,  indeed,  did  anyone  in  Marshmallowi 


5o8  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

think  the  locking  of  the  door  at  night  an  imperative 
duty. 

When  I  fell  asleep,  I  was  again  in  the  old  quarry, 
staring  into  the  deep  well.  I  thought  Mrs  Oldcastle 
was  murdering  her  daughter  in  the  house  above,  while 
I  wqs  spell-bound  to  the  spot,  where,  if  I  stood  long 
enough,  I  should  see  her  body  float  into  the  well  from 
the  subterranean  passage,  the  opening  of  which  was 
just  below  where  I  stood.  I  was  thus  confusing  and 
reconstructing  the  two  dreadful  stories  of  the  place — 
that  told  me  by  old  Weir,  about  the  circumstances  of 
his  birth ;  and  that  told  me  by  Dr  Duncan,  about  Mrs 
Oldcastle's  treatment  of  her  elder  daughter.  But  as  a 
white  hand  and  arm  appeared  in  the  water  below  me, 
sorrow  and  pity  more  than  horror  broke  the  bonds  of 
sleep,  and  I  awoke  to  less  trouble  than  that  of  my 
dieams,  only  because  that  which  I  feared  load  not  yet 
come. 


CHAPTER  XXX, 

A  SERMON  TO  MYSELF. 

T  was  the  Sabbath  morn.  But  such  a  Sab 
bath !  The  day  seemed  all  wan  with  weep- 
ing, and  gray  with  care.  The  wind  dashed 
itself  against  the  casement,  laden  with  sott 
heavy  sleet  The  ground,  the  bushes,  the  very  out 
houses  seemed  sodden  with  the  rain.  The  trees,  which 
looked  stricken  as  if  they  could  die  of  grief,  were  yet 
tormented  with  fear,  for  the  bare  branches  went  stream- 
ing out  in  the  torrent  of  the  wind,  as  cowering  before 
the  invisible  foe.  The  first  thing  I  knew  when  I  awoke 
was  the  raving  of  that  wind.  I  could  lie  in  bed  not  a 
moment  longer.  I  could  not  rest.  But  how  was  I  to 
do  the  work  of  my  office  ?  When  a  man's  duty  looks 
like  an  enemy,  dragging  him  into  the  dark  mountains, 
he  has  no  less  to  go  with  it  than  when,  like  a  friend  with 
loving  face,  it  offers  to  lead  him  along  green  pastures 
by  tne  nver-side.     I  had  little  power  over  my  feelings  j 


5IO  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  could  not  prevent  my  mind  from  mirroring  itself  in  the 
nature  around  me;  but  I  could  address  myself  to  the 
work  I  had  to  do.  "My  God!"  was  all  the  prayer  I 
could  pray  ere  I  descended  to  join  my  sister  at  the 
breakfast-table.  But  He  knew  what  lay  behind  the  one 
word. 

Martha  could  not  help  seeing  that  something  was  the 
matter.  I  saw  by  her  looks  that  she  could  read  so 
much  in  mine.  But  her  eyes  alone  questioned  me,  and 
that  only  by  glancing  at  me  anxiously  from  time  to 
time.  I  was  grateful  to  her  for  saying  nothing.  It  is  a 
fine  thing  in  friendship  to  know  when  to  be  silent 

The  prayers  were  before  me,  in  the  hands  of  all  my 
friends,  and  in  the  hearts  of  some  of  them ;  and  if  1 
could  not  enter  into  them  as  I  would,  I  could  yet  read 
them  humbly  before^ God  as  His  servant  to  help  the 
people  to  worship  as  one  flock.  But  how  was  l  to 
preach  1  I  had  been  in  difficulty  before  now,  but  never 
in  so  much.  How  was  I  to  teach  others,  whose  mind 
was  one  confusion?  The  subject  on  which  I  was  pon- 
dering when  young  Weir  came  to  tell  me  his  sister  was 
dying,  had  retreated  as  if  into  the  far  past ;  it  seemed  as 
if  years  had  come  between  that  time  and  this,  tnough 
but  one  black  night  had  rolled  by.  To  attempt  to  speak 
upon  that  would  have  been  vain,  for  I  had  nothing  to 
say  on  the  matter  now.  And  if  I  could  have  recalled 
my  former  thoughts,  I  should  have  felt  a  hypocrite  as  I 
delivered  them,  so  utterly  dissociated  would  they  have 
been  from  anything  that  I  was  thinking  or  feeling  now. 
Here  would  have  been  my  visible  form  and  smdible 


A    SERMON    TO   MYSELF.  $11 


voice,  uttering  that  as  present  to  me  now,  as  felt  by  me 
now,  which  I  did  think  and  feel  yesterday,  but  which, 
although  I  believed  it,  was  not  present  to  ray  feeling  or 
heart,  and  must  wait  the  revolution  of  months,  or  it 
might  be  of  years,  before  I  should  ^eel  it  again,  before  I 
should  be  able  to  exhort  my  people  about  it  with  the 
fervour  of  a  present  faith.  But,  indeed,  I  could  not  even 
recall  what  I  had  thought  and  felt.  Should  I  then  tell 
them  that  I  could  not  speak  to  them  that  morning  1 — 
There  would  be  nothing  wrong  in  that.  But  I  felt 
ashamed  of  yielding  to  personal  trouble  when  the  truths 
of  God  were  all  about  me,  although  I  could  not  feel 
them.  Might  not  some  hungry  soul  go  away  without 
being  satisfied,  because  I  was  faint  and  down-hearted  '^ 
I  confess  I  had  a  desire  likewise  to  avoid  giving  rise 
to  speculation  and  talk  about  myself,  a  desire  which, 
although  not  wrong,  could  neither  have  strengthened 
me  to  speak  the  truth,  nor  have  justified  me  in  making 
the  attempt. — What  was  to  be  done  ? 

All  at  once  the  remembrance  crossed  my  mind  of  a 
sermon  I  had  preached  before  upon  the  words  of  St 
Faul :  "  Thou  therefore  which  teachest  another,  teachest 
thou  not  thyself?"  a  subject  suggested  by  the  fact  that 
on  the  preceding  Sunday  I  had  especially  felt,  in  preach- 
ing to  my  people,  that  I  was  exhorting  myself  whose 
necessity  was  greater  than  theirs — at  least  I  felt  it  to  be 
greater  than  I  could  know  theirs  to  be.  And  now  the 
converse  of  the  thought  came  to  me,  and  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Might  I  not  try  the  other  way  now,  and  preach 
to  myself!    In  teaching  myself,  might  I  not  teach  others  i 


512  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Would  it  not  holdl  I  am  very  troubled  and  faithless 
now.  If  I  knew  that  God  was  going  to  lay  the  full 
weight  of  this  grief  upon  me,  yet  if  I  loved  Him  with  all 
my  heart,  should  I  not  at  least  be  more  quiet?  There 
would  not  be  a  storm  within  me  then,  as  if  the  Father 
had  descended  from  the  throne  of  the  heavens,  and 
'chaos  were  come  again.'  Let  me  expostulate  with 
myself  in  my  heart,  and  the  words  of  my  expostulation 
will  not  be  the  less  true  with  my  people." 

All  this  passed  through  my  mind  as  I  sat  in  my  study 
after  breakfast,  with  the  great  old  cedar  roaring  before  my 
window.  It  was  within  an  hour  of  church-time.  I  took 
my  Bible,  read  and  thought,  got  even  some  comfort 
already,  and  found  myself  in  my  vestry  not  quite  unwill- 
ing to  read  the  prayers  and  speak  to  my  people. 

There  were  very  few  present.  The  day  was  one  of 
the  worst — violently  stormy,  which  harmonized  some- 
what with  my  feelings ;  and,  to  my  further  relief,  the 
Hall  pew  was  empty.  Instead  of  finding  myself  a  mere 
minister  to  the  prayers  of  others,  1  found,  as  I  read, 
that  my  heart  went  out  in  crying  to  God  for  the  divine 
presence  of  His  Spirit  And  if  I  thought  more  of  myself 
in  my  prayers  than  was  well,  yet  as  soon  as  I  was  con- 
verted, would  I  not  strengthen  my  brethren  ?  And  the 
sermon  I  preached  to  myself  and  through  myself  to  my 
people,  was  that  which  the  stars  had  preached  to  me, 
and  thereby  driven  me  to  my  knees  by  the  mill-door. 
I  took  for  my  text,  "  The  glory  of  the  Lord  shall  be 
revealed ; "  and  then  I  proceeded  to  show  them  how 
tlie  glory  of  the  Lord  was  to  be  revealed.     I  preached 


A   SERMON   TO    MYSELF,  513 

to  myself  that  throughout  this  fortieth  chapter  of  the 

prophecies  of  Isaiah,  the  power  of  God  is  put  side  by 

side  with  the  weakness  of  men,  not  that  He,  the  perfect, 

may  glory  over  His  feeble  children ;  not  that  He  may 

say  to  them — "  Look  how  mighty  I  am,  and  go  down 

upon  your  knees  and  worship" — for  power  alone  was 

never  yet  worthy  of  prayer ;  but  that  he  may  say  thus  : 

"  Look,  my  children,  you  will  never  be  strong  but  with 

my  strength.     I  have  no  other  to  give  you.     And  that 

you  can  get  only  by  trusting  in  me.    I  cannot  give  it  you 

any  other  way.     There  is  no  other  way.     But  can  you 

not  trust  in  me  ?     Look  how  strong  I  am.     You  wither 

like  the  grass.    Do  not  fear.    Let  the  grass  wither.    Lay 

hold  of  my  word,  that  which  I  say  to  you  out  of  my 

truth,  and  that  will  be  life  in  you  that  the  blowing  of 

the  wind  that  withers  cannot  reach.     I  am  coming  with 

my  strong  hand  and  my  judging  arm  to  do  my  work. 

And  what  is  the  work  of  my  strong  hand  and  ruling 

arm  %     To  feed  my  flock  like  a  shepherd,  to  gather  the 

lambs  with  my  arm,  and  carry  them  in  my  bosom,  and 

gently  lead  those  that  are  with  young.    I  have  measured 

the  waters  in   the  hollow  of  my  hand,  and  held  the 

mountains  in  my  scales,  to  give  each  his  due  weight, 

and  all  the  nations,  so  strong  and  fearful  in  your  eyes, 

are  as  nothing  beside  my  strength  and  what  I  can  do. 

Do  not  think  of  me  as  of  an  image  that  your  hands  can 

make,  a  thing  you  can  choose  to  serve,  and  for  which 

you  can  do  things  to  win  its  favour.     I  am  before  and 

above  the  earth,  and  over  your  life,  and  your  oppressors 

I  will  wither  with  my  breath.     I  come  to  you  with  help. 

2  K 


514  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  need  no  worship  from  you.  But  I  say  love  me,  for 
love  is  life,  and  I  love  you.  Look  at  the  stars  I  have 
made.  I  know  every  one  of  them.  Not  one  goes  wrong, 
because  I  keep  him  right.  Why  sayest  thou,  O  Jacob, 
and  speakest,  O  Israel — my  way  is  hid  from  the  Lord, 
and  my  judgment  is  passed  over  from  my  God  !  I  give 
power  to  the  faint ^  and  to  them  that  have  no  might, 
plenty  of  strength," 

"  Thus,"  I  went  on  to  say,  "  God  brings  His  strength 
to  destroy  our  weakness  by  making  us  strong.  This  is 
a  God  indeed  !     Shall  we  not  trust  Him  1 " 

I  gave  my  people  this  paraphrase  of  the  chapter,  to 
help  them  to  see  the  meanings  which  their  familiarity 
with  the  words,  and  their  non-familiarity  with  the  modes 
of  Eastern  thought,  and  the  forms  of  Eastern  expression, 
would  unite  to  prevent  them  from  catching  more  than 
broken  glimmerings  of.  And  then  I  tried  to  show  them 
that  it  was  in  the  commonest  troubles  of  life,  as  well  as' 
in  the  spiritual  fears  and  perplexities  that  came  upon 
them,  that  they  were  to  trust  in  God;  for  God  made 
the  outside  as  well  as  the  inside,  and  they  altogether 
belonged  to  Him ;  and  that  when  outside  things,  such 
as  pain  or  loss  of  work,  or  difficulty  in  getting  money, 
were  referred  to  God  and  His  will,  they  too  straightway 
became  spiritual  affairs,  for  nothing  in  the  world  could 
any  longer  appear  common  or  unclean  to  the  man  who 
saw  God  in  everything.  But  I  told  them  they  must  not 
be  too  anxious  to  be  delivered  from  that  which  troubled 
them :  but  they  ought  to  be  anxious  to  have  tho  pre- 
sence of  God  with  them  to  support  them,  and  make 


A   SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  5H 

chem  able  in  patience  to  possess  their  souls ;  and  so  the 
trouble  would  work  its  end — the  purification  of  theii 
minds,  that  the  light  and  gladness  of  God  and  all  His 
earth,  which  the  pure  in  heart  and  the  meek  alone  could 
inherit,  might  shine  in  upon  them.  And  then  I  repeated 
to  them  this  portion  of  a  prayer  out  of  one  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  books : — 

"  O  Lord,  I  yield  unto  Thy  will,  and  joyfully  embrace 
what  sorrow  Thou  wilt  have  me  suffer.  Only  thus  much 
let  me  crave  of  Thee,  (let  my  craving,  O  Lord,  be 
accepted  of  Thee,  since  even  that  proceeds  from  Thee,) 
let  me  crave,  even  by  the  noblest  title,  which  in  my 
greatest  affliction  I  may  give  myself,  that  I  am  Thy 
creature,  and  by  Thy  goodness  (which  is  Thyself)  that 
Thou  wilt  suffer  some  beam  of  Thy  majesty  so  to  shine 
into  my  mind,  that  it  may  still  depend  confidently  on 
Thee." 

All  the  time  I  was  speaking,  the  rain,  mingled  with 
sleet,  was  dashing  against  the  windows,  and  the  wind 
was  howling  over  the  graves  all  about.  But  the  dead 
were  not  troubled  by  the  storm ;  and  over  my  head, 
from  beam  to  beam  of  the  roof,  now  resting  on  one, 
now  flitting  to  another,  a  sparrow  kept  flying,  which 
had  taken  refuge  in  the  church  till  the  storm  should 
cease  and  the  sun  shine  out  in  the  great  temple. 
"  This,"  I  said  aloud,  "  is  what  the  church  is  for :  as 
the  sparrow  finds  there  a  house  from  the  storm,  so 
the  human  heart  escapes  thither  to  hear  the  still  small 


5l6  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

voice  of  God  when  its  faith  is  too  weak  to  find  Him  in 
tlie  storm,  and  in  the  sorrow,  and  in  the  pain."  And 
while  I  spoke,  a  dim  watery  gleam  fell  on  the  chancel- 
floor,  and  the  comfort  of  the  sun  awoke  in  my  heart 
Nor  let  any  one  call  me  superstitious  for  taking  that  pale 
sun-ray  of  hope  as  sent  to  me ;  for  I  received  it  as 
comfort  for  the  race,  and  for  me  as  one  of  the  family, 
even  as  the  bow  that  was  set  in  the  cloud,  a  promise  to 
the  eyes  of  light  for  them  that  sit  in  darkness.  As  I 
write,  my  aye  falls  upon  the  Bible  on  the  table  by  my 
side,  and  I  read  the  words,  "  For  the  Lord  God  is  a  sun 
and  shield,  the  Lord  will  give  grace  and  glory."  And 
I  lift  my  eyes  from  my  paper  and  look  abroad  from  my 
window,  and  the  sun  is  shining  in  its  strength.  The 
leaves  are  dancing  in  the  light  wind  that  gives  them 
each  its  share  of  the  sun,  and  my  trouble  has  passed 
away  for  ever,  like  the  storm  of  that  night  and  the  unrest 
of  that  strange  Sabbath. 

Such  comforts  would  come  to  us  oftener  from  Nature, 
if  we  really  believed  that  our  God  was  the  God  of 
Nature;  that  when  He  made,  or  rather  when  He 
makes,  He  means;  that  not  His  hands  only,  but  His 
heart  too,  is  in  the  making  of  those  things ;  that,  there- 
fore, the  influences  of  Nature  upon  human  minds  and 
hearts  are  because  He  intended  them.  And  if  we  be- 
lieve that  our  God  is  everywhere,  why  should  we  not 
think  Him  present  even  in  the  coincidences  that  some- 
times seem  so  strange  1  For,  if  He  be  in ,  the  things 
that  coincide,  He  must  be  in  the  coincidence  of  those 
things. 


A    SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  5lJ 

Miss  Oldcastle  told  me  once  that  she  could  not  take 
her  eyes  off  a  butterfly  which  was  flitting  about  in  the 
church  i:,ll  tie  time  I  was  speaking  of  the  resurrection 
of  the  dead.  I  told  the  people  that  in  Greek  there  was 
one  word  for  the  soul  and  for  a  butterfly — Psyche ;  that 
I  thought  as  the  light  on  the  rain  made  the  natural 
symbol  of  mercy — the  rainbow,  so  the  butterfly  was  the 
type  in  nature,  and  made  to  the  end,  amongst  other 
ends,  of  being  such  a  type — of  the  resurrection  of  the 
human  body;  that  its  name  certainly  expi^ssed  the 
hope  of  the  Greeks  in  immortality,  while  to  us  it  speaks 
likewise  of  a  glorified  body,  whereby  we  shall  know  and 
love  each  other  with  our  eyes  as  well  as  our  hearts. — ■ 
My  sister  saw  the  butterfly  too,  but  only  remembered 
that  she  had  seen  it  when  it  was  mentioned  in  her  hear- 
ing :  on  her  the  sight  made  no  impression ;  she  saw  no 
coincidence. 

I  descended  from  the  pulpit  comforted  by  the  sermon 
I  had  preached  to  myself  But  I  was  glad  to  feel  justi- 
fied in  telling  my  people  that,  in  consequence  of  the 
continued  storm,  for  there  had  been  no  more  of  sunshine 
than  just  that  watery  gleam,  there  would  be  no  service 
in  the  afternoon,  and  that  I  would  instead  visit  some  of 
my  sick  poor,  whom  the  weather  might  have  discom- 
posed in  their  worn  dwellings. 

The  people  were  very  slow  in  dispersing.  There  was 
so  much  putting  on  of  clogs,  gathering  up  of  skirts  over 
the  head,  and  expanding  of  umbrellas,  soon  to  be  taken 
down  again  as  worse  than  useless  in  the  violence  of  the 
wind,  that  the  porches  were  crowded,  and  the  few  left 


5l8  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

in  the  church  detained  till  the  others  made  way.  1 
lingered  with  these.     They  were  all  poor  people. 

**  I  am  sorry  you  will  have  such  a  wet  walk  home,'" 
I  said  to  Mrs  Baird,  the  wife  of  old  Reginald  Baird,  the 
shoemaker,  a  little  wizened  creature,  with  more  wrinkles 
than  hairs,  who  the  older  and  more  withered  she  grew, 
seemed  like  the  kernels  of  some  nuts  only  to  grow  the 
sweeter. 

"  It 's  very  good  of  you  to  let  us  off  this  afternoon, 
sir.  Not-  as  I  minds  the  wet :  it  finds  out  the  holes 
in  people's  shoes,  and  gets  my  husband  into  more 
work." 

This  was  in  fact  the  response  of  the  shoemaker's 
wife  to  my  sermon.  If  we  look  for  responses  after  our 
fashion  instead  of  after  people's  own  fashion,  we  ought 
to  be  disappointed.  Any  recognition  of  truth,  whatever 
form  it  may  take,  whether  that  of  poetic  delight,  intel- 
lectual corroboration,  practical  commonplace,  or  even 
vulgar  aphorism,  must  be  welcomed  by  the  husbandmen 
of  the  God  of  growth.  A  response  which  jars  against 
the  peculiar  pitch  of  our  mental  instrument,  must  not 
therefore  be  turned  away  from  with  dislike.  Our  mood 
of  the  moment  is  not  that  by  which  the  universe  is  tuned 
into  its  harmonics.  We  must  drop  our  instrument  and 
listen  to  the  other,  and  if  we  find  that  the  pla3'er  upon 
it  is  breathing  after  a  higher  expression,  is,  after  his 
fashion,  striving  to  embody  something  he  sees  of  the 
same  truth  the  utterance  of  which  called  forth  this  his 
answer,  let  us  thank  God  and  take  courage.  God  at 
least  is  pleased :  and  if  our  refinement  and  education 


A    SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  $1^ 


take  away  from  our  pleasure,  it  is  because  of  something 
low,  false,  and  selfish,  not  divine  in  a  word,  that  is 
ir.ingled  with  that  refinement  and  that  education.  If 
the  shoemaker's  wife's  response  to  the  prophet's  grand 
poem  about  the  care  of  God  over  His  creatures,  took 
the  form  of  acknowledgment  for  the  rain  that  found  out 
the  holes  in  the  people's  shoes,  it  was  the  more  genuine 
and  true,  for  in  itself  it  afforded  proof  that  it  was  not 
a  mere  reflex  of  the  words  of  the  prophet,  but  sprung 
from  the  experience  and  recognition  of  the  shoemaker's 
wife.  Nor  was  there  anything  necessarily  selfish  in  it, 
for  if  there  are  holes  in  people's  shoes,  the  sooner  they 
are  found  out  the  better. 

While  I  was  talking  to  Mrs  Baird,  Mr  Stoddart,  whose 
love  for  the  old  organ  had  been  stronger  than  his  dislike 
to  the  storm,  had  come  down  into  the  church,  and  now 
approached  me. 

"  I  never  saw  you  in  the  church  before,  Mr  Stoddart," 
I  said,  "  though  I  have  heard  you  often  enough.  You 
use  your  own  private  door  always." 

"  I  thought  to  go  that  way  now,  but  there  came  such 
a  fierce  burst  of  wind  and  rain  in  my  face,  that  my 
courage  failed  me,  and  I  turned  back — like  the  sparrow 
— for  refuge  in  the  church." 

"A  thought  strikes  me,"  I  said.  "Come  home 'with 
me,  and  have  some  lunch,  and  then  we  will  go  together 
to  see  some  of  my  poor  people.  I  have  often  wished 
to  ask  you." 

His  face  fell 

**  It  is  such  a  day  1 "  he  answered,  remonstratingly,  but 


520  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

not  positively  refusing.  It  was  not  his  way  ever  to 
refuse  anything  positively. 

"So  it  was  when  you  set  out  this  morning,"  I  re- 
turned ;  "  but  you  would  not  deprive  us  of  the  aid  of 
your  music  for  the  sake  of  a  charge  of  wind,  and  a  rattle 
of  rain-drops." 

"  But  I  shan't  be  of  any  use.  You  are  going,  and 
that  is  enough." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Your  very  presence  will  be  of 
use.  Nothing  yet  given  him  or  done  for  him  by  his 
fellow,  ever  did  any  man  so  much  good  as  the  recogni- 
tion of  the  brotherhood  by  the  common  signs  of  friend- 
sljip  and  sympathy.  The  best  good  of  given  money 
depends  on  the  degree  to  which  it  is  the  sign  of  that 
friendship  and  sympathy.  Our  Lord  did  not  make  little 
of  visiting  :  *  I  was  sick,  and  ye  visited  me.'  *  Inasmuch 
as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  did  it  not 
to  me."  Of  course,  if  the  visitor  goes  professionally  and 
not  humanly, — as  a  mere  religious  policeman,  that  is — 
whether  he  only  distributes  tracts  with  condescending 
words,  or  gives  money  liberally  because  he  thinks  he 
ought,  the  more  he  does  not  go  the  better,  for  he  only 
does  harm  to  them  and  himself  too." 

"  But  I  cannot  pretend  to  feel  any  of  the  interest  you 
consider  essential :  why  then  should  I  go  1 " 

"  To  please  me,  your  friend.  That  is  a  good  human 
reason.  You  need  not  say  a  word — you  must  not  pre- 
tend anything.  Go  as  my  companion,  not  as  their  visitor 
Will  you  come  ? " 

"  I  suppose  I  must" 


A   SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  521 

"  You  must,  then.  Thank  you.  You  will  help  me. 
I  have  seldom  a  companion." 

So  when  the  storm-fit  had  abated  for  the  moment,  we 
hurried  to  the  vicarage,  had  a  good  though  hasty  lunch, 
(to  which  I  was  pleased  to  see  Mr  Stoddart  do  justice ; 
for  it  is  with  man  as  with  beast,  if  you  want  work  out 
of  him,  he  must  eat  well — and  it  is  the  one  justification 
of  eating  well,  that  a  man  works  well  upon  it,)  and  set 
out  for  the  village.  The  rain  was  worse  than  ever. 
There  was  no  sleet,  and  the  wind  was  not  cold,  but 
the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened,  and  if  the  foun- 
tains of  the  great  deep  were  not  broken  up,  it  looked 
like  it,  at  least,  when  we  reached  the  bridge  and  saw 
how  the  river  had  spread  out  over  all  the  low  lands 
on  its  borders.  We  could  not  talk  much  as  we  went 
along. 

"  Don't  you  find  some  pleasure  in  fighting  the  windl" 
I  said. 

*'  I  have  no  doubt  I  should,"  answered  Mr  Stoddart, 
"  if  I  thought  I  were  going  to  do  any  good ;  but  as  it 
is,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  would  rather  be  by  my  own  fire 
with  my  folio  Dante  on  the  reading  desk." 

"  Well,  I  would  rather  help  the  poorest  woman  in 
creation,  than  contemplate  the  sufferings  of  the  greatest 
and  wickedest,"  I  said. 

"There  are  two  things  you  forget,"  returned  Mr 
Stoddart  "  First,  that  the  poem  of  Dante  is  not  nearly 
occupied  with  the  sufferings  of  the  wicked ;  and  next, 
that  what  I  have  complained  of  in  this  expedition— 
which,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  would  call  a  wild 


524  ANNALS    OF   A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

goose  chase,  were  it  not  that  it  is  your  doing  and  not 
mine — is  that  I  am  not  going  to  help  anybody." 

"  You  would  have  the  best  of  the  argument  entirely," 
I  replied,  "if  your  expectation  was  sure  to  turn  out 
correct." 

As  I  spoke,  we  had  come  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
Tomkins's  cottage,  which  lay  low  down  from  the  village 
towards  the  river,  and  I  saw  that  the  water  was  at  the 
threshold.  I  turned  to  Mr  Stoddart,  who,  to  do  him 
justice,  had  not  yet  grumbled  in  the  least. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  go  home,  after  all,"  I  said  ; 
"  for  you  must  wade  into  Tomkins's  if  you  go  at  alL 
Poor  old  man !  what  can  he  be  doing,  with  his  wife 
dying,  and  the  river  in  his  house  !" 

"  You  have  constituted  yourself  my  superior  officer, 
Mr  Walton.  I  never  turned  my  back  on  my  leader  yet. 
Though  I  confess  I  wish  I  could  see  the  enemy  a  little 
clearer." 

"  There  is  the  enemy,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  water, 
and  walking  into  it 

Mr  Stoddart  followed  me  without  a  moment's  hesita 
tion. 

When  I  opened  the  door,  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  a 
small  stream  of  water  running  straight  from  the  door  to 
the  fire  on  the  hearth,  which  it  had  already  drowned. 
The  old  man  was  sitting  by  his  wife's  bedside.  Life 
seemed  rapidly  going  from  the  old  woman.  She  lay 
breathing  very  hard. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  rose,  almost  ay* 
^^Sy  "  y^'^  're  come  at  last  I" 


A    SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  523 

"  Did  you  send  for  me?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  sir.  I  had  nobody  to  send.  Leastways,  I 
asked  the  Lord  if  He  wouldn't  fetch  you.  I  been 
prayin'  hard  for  you  for  the  last  hour.  I  couldn't  leave 
her  to  come  for  you.  And  I  do  believe  the  wind  'ud  ha* 
blown  me  off  my  two  old  legs." 

"  Well,  I  am  come,  you  see.  I  would  have  come 
sooner,  but  I  had  no  idea  you  would  be  flooded." 

"  It 's  not  that  I  mind,  sir,  though  it  is  cold  sin'  the 
fire  went.  But  she  is  goin'  now,  sir.  She  ha'n't  spoken 
a  word  this  two  hours  and  more,  and  her  breathin  's 
worse  and  worse.     She  don't  know  me  now,  sir." 

A  moan  of  protestation  came  from  the  dying  woman. 

"  She  does  know  you,  and  loves  you  too,  Tomkins," 
I  said.  "  And  you  '11  both  know  each  other  better  by 
and  by." 

The  old  woman  made  a  feeble  motion  with  her  hand, 
I  took  it  in  mine.  It  was  cold  and  deathlike.  The  rain 
was  falling  in  large  slow  drops  from  the  roof  upon  the  bed- 
clothes. But  she  would  be  beyond  the  reach  of  all  the 
region  storms  before  long,  and  it  did  not  matter  much. 

"  Look  if  you  can  find  a  basin  or  plate,  Mr  Stoddart, 
and  put  it  to  catch  the  drop  here,"  I  said. 

For  I  wanted  to  give  him  the  first  chance  of  being 
useful. 

*'  There 's  one  in  the  press  there,"  said  the  old  man, 
rising  feebly. 

"  Keep  your  seat,"  said  Mr  Stoddart     "  I  'II  get  it" 

And  he  got  a  basin  from  the  cupboard,  and  put  it  on 
ths  ted  to  catch  the  drop. 


524  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

The  old  woman  held  my  hand  in  hers;  but  by  its 
motion  I  knew  that  she  wanted  something;  and  guess- 
ing what  it  was  from  what  she  had  said  before,  I  made 
her  husband  sit  on  the  bed  on  the  other  side  of  her  ar.d 
take  hold  of  her  other  hand,  while  I  took  his  place  on 
the  chair  by  the  bedside.  This  seemed  to  content  her. 
So  I  went  and  whispered  to  Mr  Stoddart,  who  had  stood 
looking  on  disconsolately : — 

"  You  heard  me  say  I  would  visit  some  of  my  sick 
people  this  afternoon.  Some  will  be  expecting  me  witli 
certainty.  You  must  go  instead  of  me,  and  tell  them 
that  I  cannot  come,  because  old  Mrs  Tomkins  is  dying; 
but  I  will  see  them  soon." 

He  seemed  rather  relieved  at  the  commission.  I  gave 
him  the  necessary  directions  to  find  the  cottages,  and  he 
left  me. 

I  may  mention  here  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  a 
relatTon  between  Mr  Stoddart  and  the  poor  of  the  parish 
— a  very  slight  one  indeed,  at  first,  for  it  consisted  only 
in  his  knowing  two  or  three  of  them,  so  as  to  ask  after 
their  health  when  he  met  them,  and  give  them  an  occa- 
sional half-crown.  But  it  led  to  better  things  before 
many  years  had  passed.  It  seems  scarcely  more  than 
yesterday — though  it  is  twenty  years  ago — that  I  came 
upon  him  in  the  avenue,  standing  in  dismay  over  the 
fragments  of  a  jug  of  soup  which  he  had  dropped,  to  the 
detriment  of  his  trousers  as  well  as  the  loss  of  his  soup. 
"  What  am  I  to  do  ? "  he  said.  **  Poor  Jones  expects  his 
soup  to-day." — "  Why,  go  back  and  get  some  more." — 
"But  what  will  cook  say?"    The  poor  man  was  mora 


A   SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  525 

afraid  of  the  cook  than  he  would  have  been  of  a  squad- 
ron of  cavalry.  "  Never  mind  the  cook.  Tell  her  you 
must  have  some  more  as  soon  as  it  can  be  got  ready." 
He  stood  uncertain  for  a  moment.  Then  his  face  bright- 
ened. "  I  will  tell  her  I  want  my  luncheon.  I  always 
have  soup.  And  I  '11  get  out  through  the  greenhouse,  and 
carry  it  to  Jones." — "  Very  well,"  I  said ;  "  that  will  do 
capitally."  And  I  went  on,  without  caring  to  disturb 
my  satisfaction  by  determining  whether  the  devotion  of 
his  own  soup  arose  more  from  love  to  Jones,  or  fear  of 
the  cook.  He  was  a  great  help  to  me  in  the  latter  part 
of  his  life,  especially  after  I  lost  good  Dr  Duncan,  and 
my  beloved  friend  Old  Rogers.  He  was  just  one  of 
those  men  who  make  excellent  front-rank  men,  but  are 
quite  unfit  for  officers.  He  could  do  what  he  was  told 
without  flinching,  but  he  always  required  to  be  told. 

I  resumed  my  seat  by  the  bedside,  where  the  olo' 
woman  was  again  moaning.  As  soon  as  I  took  her 
hand  she  ceased,  and  so  I  sat  till  it  began  to  grow 
dark. 

"  Are  you  there,  sir  ? "  she  would  murmur. 

"  Yes,  I  am  here.     I  have  a  hold  of  your  hand." 
»  '*I  can't  feel  you,  sir." 

"  But  you  can  hear  me.  And  you  can  hear  God's 
V  iice  in  your  heart.  I  am  here,  though  you  can't  feel 
0-e.     And  God  is  here,  though  you  can't  see  Him." 

She  would  be  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  murmur 
again — 

"Are  you  there,  Tomkins?" 

"  Yes,  my  woman,  I  'm  here,"  answered  the  old  man 


$26  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

to  one  of  these  questions ;  "  but  I  wish  I  was  there  in- 
stead, wheresomever  it  be  as  you  're  goin',  old  girl." 

And  all  that  I  could  hear  of  her  answer  was,  "  Bym 
by ;  bym  by." 

Why  should  I  linger  over  the  death-bed  of  an  illiterate 
woman,  old  and  plain,  dying  away  by  inches?  Is  it 
only  that  she  died  with  a  hold  of  my  hand,  and  that 
therefore  I  am  interested  in  the  story  1  I  trust  not.  I 
was  interested  in  ^er.  Why]  Would  my  readers  be 
more  interested  if  I  told  them  of  the  death  of  a  young 
lovely  creature,  who  said  touching  things,  and  died 
amidst  a  circle  of  friends,  who  felt  that  the  very  light  of 
life  was  being  taken  away  from  them  1  It  was  enough 
for  me  that  here  was  a  woman  with  a  heart  like  my  own ; 
who  needed  the  same  salvation  I  needed ;  to  whom  the 
love  of  God  was  the  one  blessed  thing ,  who  was  passing 
through  the  same  dark  passage  into  the  light  that  the 
Lord  had  passed  through  before  her,  that  I  had  to  pass 
through  after  her.  She  had  no  theories — at  least,  she 
gave  utterance  to  none ;  she  had  few  thoughts  of  her 
own — and  gave  still  fewer  of  them  expression;  you 
might  guess  at  a  trae  notion  in  her  mind,  but  an  abstract 
idea  she  could  scarcely  lay  hold  of;  her  speech  was  yery 
common ;  her  manner  rather  brusque  than  gentle ;  but 
she  could  love ;  she  could  forget  herself ;  she  could  be 
sorry  for  what  she  did  or  thought  wrong;  she  could 
hope ;  she  could  wish  to  be  better ;  she  could  admire 
good  people ;  she  could  trust  in  God  her  Saviour.  And 
uow  the  loving  God-made  human  heart  in  her  was  going 


A   SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  527 

into  a  new  school  that  it  might  begin  a  fresh  beautiful 
growth.  She  was  old,  I  have  said,  and  plain ;  but  now 
her  old  age  and  plainness  were  about  to  vanish,  and  all 
that  had  made  her  youth  attractive  to  young  Tomkins 
was  about  to  return  to  her,  only  rendered  tenfold  more 
beautiful  by  the  growth  of  fifty  years  of  learning  accord- 
ing to  her  ability.  God  has  such  patience  in  working  us 
into  vessels  of  honour !  in  teaching  us  to  be  children  I 
And  shall  we  find  the  human  heart  in  which  the  germs 
of  all  that  is  noblest  and  loveliest  and  likest  to  God  have 
begun  to  grow  and  manifest  themselves  uninteresting, 
because  its  circumstances  have  been  narrow,  bare,  and 
poverty-stricken,  though  neither  sordid  nor  unclean ; 
because  the  woman  is  old  and  wrinkled  and  brown,  as 
if  these  were  more  than  the  transient  accidents  of  hu- 
manity ;  because  she  has  neither  learned  grammar  nor 
philosophy ;  because  her  habits  have  neither  been  deli- 
cate nor  self-indulgent  1  To  help  the  mind  of  such  a 
woman  to  unfold  to  the  recognition  of  the  endless  de- 
liglits  of  truth ;  to  watch  the  dawn  of  the  rising  intelli- 
gence upon  the  too  still  face,  and  the  transfiguration  of 
the  whole  form,  as  the  gentle  rusticity  vanishes  in  yet 
gentler  grace,  is  a  labour  and  a  delight  worth  the  time 
and  mind  of  an  archangel.  Our  best  living  poet  says — 
but  ao ;  I  will  not  quote.  It  is  a  distinct  wrong  that 
befalls  the  best  books  to  have  many  of  their  best  words 
quoted  till  in  their  own  place  and  connexion  they  cease 
to  have  force  and  influence.  The  meaning  of  the  pas- 
sage is  that  the  communication  of  truth  is  one  of  the 


528  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

greatest  delights  the  human  heart  can  experience.  Surel) 
this  is  true.  Does  not  the  teaching  of  men  form  a  great 
part  of  the  divine  gladness  1 

Therefore  even  the  dull  approaches  of  dccith  are  full 
of  deep  significance  and  warm  interest  to  one  who  loves 
his  fellows,  who  desires  not  to  be  distinguished  by  any- 
better  fate  than  theirs;  and  shrinks  from  the  pride  of 
supposing  that  his  own  death,  or  that  of  the  noblest  of 
the  good,  is  more  precious  in  the  sight  of  God  than  that 
of  "  one  of  the  least  of  these  little  ones." 

At  length,  after  a  long  silence,  the  peculiar  sounds  of 
/>bstructed  breathing  indicated  the  end  at  hand.  The 
Jaw  fell,  and  the  eyes  were  fixed.  The  old  man  closed 
the  mouth  and  the  eyes  of  his  old  companion,  weeping 
like  a  child,  and  I  prayed  aloud,  giving  thanks  to  God 
for  taking  her  to  Himself  It  went  to  my  heart  to  leave 
the  old  man  alone  with  the  dead ;  but  it  was  better  to 
let  him  be  alone  for  a  while,  ere  the  women  should 
come  to  do  the  last  offices  for  the  abandoned  form. 

I  went  to  Old  Rogers,  told  him  the  state  in  which  I 
bad  left  poor  Tomkins,  and  asked  him  what  was  to  be 
done. 

"  I  '11  go  and  bring  him  home,  sir,  directly.  He  can't 
be  left  there." 

*'  But  how  can  you  bring  him  in  such  a  night  1 "  , 

"  Let  me  see,  sir.  I  must  think.  Would  your  mare 
go  in  a  cart,  do  you  think  1 " 

"  Quite  quietly.  She  brought  a  load  of  gravel  from 
the  common  a  few  days  ago.  But  where 's  your  cart  1 
I  haven't  got  one." 


A   SERMON    TO    MYSELF.  529 

"There's  one  at  Weir's  to  be  repaired,  sir.  It 
wouldn't  be  stealing  to  borrow  it." 

How  he  managed  with  Tomkins  I  do  not  know.  I 
tliought  it  better  to  leave  all  the  rest  to  him.  He  only 
said  afterwards,  that  he  could  hardly  get  the  old  man 
away  from  the  body.  But  when  I  went  in  next  day,  I 
found  Tomkins  silting,  disconsolate,  but  as  comfortable 
as  he  could  be,  in  the  easy  chair  by  the  side  of  the  fire. 
Mrs  Rogers  was  bustling  about  cheerily.  The  storm 
had  died  in  the  night  The  sun  was  shining.  It  was 
the  first  of  the  spring  weather.  The  whole  country  was 
gleaming  with  water.  But  soon  it  would  sink  away,  and 
the  grass  be  the  thicker  for  its  rising. 

2L 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  COUNCIL  OF  FRIENDS. 

Y  reader  will  easily  believe  that  I  returned 
home  that  Sunday  evening  somewhat  jaded, 
nor  will  he  be  surprised  if  I  say  that  next 
morning  I  felt  disinclined  to  leave  my  bed. 
I  was  able,  however,  to  rise  and  go,  as  I  have  said,  to 
Old  Rogers's  cottage. 

But  when  I  came  home,  I  could  no  longer  conceal 
from  myself  that  I  was  in  danger  of  a  return  of  my  last 
attack.  I  had  been  sitting  for  hours  in  wet  clotlies, 
with  my  boots  full  of  water,  and  now  I  had  to  suffer 
for  it  But  as  I  was  not  to  blame  in  the  matter,  and 
had  no  choice  offered  me  whether  I  should  be  wet  or 
dry  while  I  sat  by  the  dying  woman,  I  felt  no  depression 
at  the  prospect  of  the  coming  illness.  Indeed,  I  was  too 
much  depressed  from  other  causes,  from  mental  strife 
and  hopelessness,  to  care  much  whether  I  was  well  or 
ill.     I  could  have  welcomed  death  in  the  mood  in  which 


A   COUNCIL   OF    FRIENDS.  53X 

I  sometimes  felt  myself  during  the  next  few  days,  when 
I  was  unable  to  leave  my  bed,  and  knew  that  Captain 
Everard  was  at  the  Hall,  and  knew  nothing  besides. 
For  no  voice  reached  me  from  that  quarter  any  more 
than  if  Oldcastle  Hall  had  been  a  region  beyond  the 
grave.  Miss  Oldcastle  seemed  to  have  vanished  from 
my  ken  as  much  as  Catherine  Weir  and  Mrs  Tomkins 
— yes,  more — for  there  was  only  death  between  these 
and  me ;  whereas,  there  was  something  far  worse — I 
could  not  always  tell  what — that  rose  ever  between 
Miss  Oldcastle  and  myself,  and  paralysed  any  effort  I 
might  fancy  myself  on  the  point  of  making  for  her 
rescue. 

One  pleasant  thing  happened.  On  the  Thursday,  I 
think  it  was,  I  felt  better.  My  sister  came  into  my  room 
and  said  that  Miss  Crowther  had  called,  and  wanted  to 
see  me. 

"  Which  Miss  Crowther  is  it  ? "  I  asked. 

"The  little  lady  that  looks  like  a  bird,  and  chirps 
when  she  talks." 

Of  course  I  was  no  longer  in  any  doubt  as  to  which 
of  them  it  was. 

"  You  told  her  I  had  a  bad  cold,  did  you  not  1 " 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  she  says  if  it  is  only  a  cold,  it  will 
do  you  no  harm  to  see  her." 

"  But  you  told  her  I  was  in  bed,  didn't  youl" 

"  Of  course.  But  it  makes  no  difference.  She  says 
she 's  used  to  seeing  sick  folk  in  bed ;  and  if  you  don't 
mind  seeing  her,  she  doesn't  mind  seeing  you." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  see  her,"  I  said. 


532  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

So  my  sister  made  me  a  little  tidier,  and  introduced 
Miss  Crowther. 

"  0  dear  Mr  Walton,  I  am  so  sorry !  But  you're  not 
very  ill,  are  you  1 " 

"  I  hope  not,  Miss  Jemima.  Indeed,  I  begin  to  think 
this  morning  that  I  am  going  to  get  off  easier  than  I 
expected." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  Now  listen  to  me.  I  won't  keep 
yotl,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  some  importance.  I  hear  that 
one  of  your  people  is  dead,  a  young  woman  of  the  name 
of  Weir,  who  has  left  a  little  boy  behind  her.  Now,  I 
have  been  wanting  for  a  long  time  to  adopt  a  child ^" 

"  But,"  I  interrupted  her,  "  What  would  Miss  Hester 
sayl" 

"  My  sister  is  not  so  very  dreadful  as  perhaps  you  think 
her,  Mr  Walton ;  and  besides,  when  I  do  want  my  own 
way  very  particularly,  which  is  not  often,  for  there  are 
not  so  many  things  that  it 's  worth  while  insisting  upon— 
but  when  I  do  want  my  own  way,  I  always  have  it.  I 
then  stand  upon  my  right  of — what  do  you  call  it  1 — ■ 
pruno — primogeniture — that 's  it !  Well,  I  think  I  know 
something  of  this  child's  father.  I  am  sorry  to  say  I 
don't  know  much  good  of  him,  and  that 's  the  worse  for 
the  boy.     Still " 

"  The  boy  is  an  uncommonly  sweet  and  lovable  child, 
whoever  was  his  father,"  I  interposed. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  I  am  the  more  deter- 
mined to  adopt  him.     What  friends  has  he  ? " 

"He  has  a  grandfather,  and  an  uncle  and  aunt,  and 
will  have  a  godfather — that 's  me — ^in  a  few  days,  I  hope." 


A    COUNCIL    OF    FRIENDS.  533 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  There  will  be  no  oppo* 
sition  on  the  part  of  the  relatives,  I  presume  1 " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  fear  I  shall  object  for 
one,  Miss  Jemima." 

"  You  1  I  didn't  expect  that  of  you,  Mr  Walton,  I 
must  say." 

And  there  was  a  tremor  in  the  old  lady's  voice  more 
of  disappointment  and  hurt  than  of  anger. 

"  I  will  think  it  over,  though,  and  talk  about  it  to  his 
grandfather,  and  we  shall  find  out  what's  best,  I  do 
hope.  You  must  not  think  I  should  not  like  you  to 
have  him." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr  Walton.  Then  I  won't  stay  longer 
now.  But  I  warn  you  I  will  call  again  very  soon,  if  you 
don't  come  to  see  me.     Good  morning." 

And  the  dear  old  lady  shook  hands  with  me  and  left 
me  rather  hurriedly,  turning  at  the  door,  however,  to 
add — 

"  Mind,  I  've  set  my  heart  upon  having  the  boy,  Mr 
Walton.     I've  seen  him  often." 

What  could  have  made  Miss  Crowther  take  such  a 
fancy  to  the  boy  1  I  could  not  help  associating  it  with 
what  I  had  heard  of  her  youthful  disappointment,  but 
never  having  had  my  conjectures  confirmed,  I  will  say 
no  more  about  them.  Of  course  I  talked  the  matter 
over  with  Thomas  Weir;  but,  as  I  had  suspected,  I 
found  that  he  was  now  as  unwilling  to  part  with  the  boy 
as  he  had  formerly  disliked  the  sight  of  him.  Nor  did 
I  press  the  matter  at  all,  having  a  belief  that  the  circum- 
stances of  one's  natal   position  are  not  to  be   rudely 


534  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

handled  or  thoughtlessly  altered,  besides  that  I  thought 
Thomas  and  his  daughter  ought  to  have  all  the  comfort 
and  good  that  were  to  be  got  from  the  presence  of  the 
boy  whose  advent  had  occasioned  them  so  much  trouble 
and  sorrow,  yea,  and  sin  too.  But  I  did  not  give  a 
positive  and  final  refusal  to  Miss  Crowther.  I  only  said 
"  for  the  present ; "  for  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  go 
further.  I  thought  that  such  changes  might  take  place 
as  would  render  the  trial  of  such  a  new  relationship 
desirable ;  as,  indeed,  it  turned  out  in  the  end,  though 
I  cannot  tell  the  story  now,  but  must  keep  it  for  a 
possible  future. 

I  have,  I  think,  entirely  as  yet,  followed,  in  these 
memoirs,  the  plan  of  relating  either  those  things  only  at 
which  I  was  present,  or,  if  other  things,  only  in  the  same 
mode  in  wliich  I  heard  them.  I  will  now  depart  from 
this  plan — for  once.  Years  passed  before  some  of  the 
following  facts  were  reported  to  me  but  it  is  only  here 
that  they  could  be  interesting  to  my  readers. 

At  the  very  time  Miss  Crowther  was  with  me,  as 
nearly  as  I  can.  guess,  Old  Rogers  turned  into  Thomas 
Weir's  workshop.  The  usual,  on  the  present  occasion 
somewhat  melancholy,  greetings  having  passed  between 
them,  Old  Rogers  said — 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr  Weir,  there's  summat  the 
matter  wi'  parson  t " 

*'  OverAvorked,"  returned  Weir.  "  He 's  lost  two,  ye 
see,  and  had  to  see  them  both  safe  over,  as  I  may  say, 
within  the  same  day.  He's  got  a  bad  cold,  I'm  sorry 
to  hear,  besides.     Have  ye  heard  of  him  to-day  1" 


A   COUNCIL    OF   FRIENDS.  535 

"  Ves,  yes ;  he 's  badly,  and  in  bed.  But  that 's  not 
what  I  mean.  There 's  summat  on  his  mind,"  said  Old 
Rogers. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  it 's  for  you  or  me  to  meddle 
mth  parson's  mind,"  returned  Weir. 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  o'  that,"  persisted  Rogers.  "  But 
if  I  had  thought,  Mr  Weir,  as  how  you  would  be  ready 
to  take  me  up  short  for  mentionin'  of  the  thing,  I 
wouldn't  ha'  opened  my  mouth  to  you  about  parson — > 
leastways,  in  that  way,  I  mean." 

*'  But  what  way  do  you  mean.  Old  Rogers  1  ** 

*'  Why,  about  his  in'ards,  you  know." 

"  I  'm  no  nearer  your  meanin  yet." 

"  Well,  Mr  Weir,  you  and  me 's  two  old  fellows,  now 
— leastways  I  'm  a  deal  older  than  you.  But  that  doesn't 
signify  to  what  I  want  to  say." 

And  here  Old  Rogers  stuck  fast — according  to  Weir's 
story. 

"  It  don't  seem  easy  to  say  no  how,  Old  Rogers,"  said 
Weir. 

"  Well,  it  ain't.  So  I  must  just  let  it  go  by  the  run, 
and  hope  the  parson,  who  '11  never  know,  would  forgive 
me  if  he  did." 

"  Well,  then,  what  is  it  ? " 

"  It  *s  my  opinion  that  that  parson  o'  ours — ^you  see, 
we  knows  about  it,  Mr  Weir,  though  we  're  not  gentle- 
folks— leastways,  I  'm  none." 

"  Now,  what  do  you  mean.  Old  Rogers  ? " 

"  Well,  I  means  this — ^as  how  parson 's  in  love,  There^ 
that 's  paid  out." 


536  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Suppose  he  was,  I  don't  see  yet  what  business  that 
is  of  yours  or  mine  either." 

"  Well,  I  do.     I  'd  go  to  Davie  Jones  for  that  man." 

A  heathenish  expression,  perhaps ;  but  Weir  assured 
me,  with  much  amusement  in  his  tone,  that  those  wer^f 
the  very  words  Old  Rogers  used.  Leaving  the  expres 
sion  aside,  will  the  reader  think  for  a  moment  on  the 
old  man's  reasoning  1  My  condition  was  his  business ; 
for  he  was  ready  to  die  for  me  !  Ah  !  love  does  indeed 
make  us  all  each  other's  keeper,  just  as  we  were  intended 
to  be. 

"  But  what  can  we  do  ? "  returned  Weir. 

Perhaps  he  was  the  less  inclined  to  listen  to  the  old 
man,  that  he  was  busy  with  a  coffin  for  his  daughter, 
who  was  lying  dead  down  the  street.  And  so  my  poor 
affairs  were  talked  of  over  the  coffin-planks.  Well,  well, 
it  was  no  bad  omen. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Mr  Weir,  this  here 's  a  serious  busi- 
ness. And  it  seems  to  me  it 's  not  shipshape  o'  you  to 
go  on  with  that  plane  o'  yours,  when  we  're  talkin'  about 
parson." 

"  Well,  Old  Rogers,  I  meant  no  offence.  Here  goes. 
Nmv,  what  have  you  to  say?  Though  if  it's  offence 
to  parson  you  're  speakin'  of,  I  know,  if  I  were  parson, 
who  I  'd  think  was  takin'  the*  greatest' liberty,  me  wi'  my 
plane,  or  you  wi'  your  fancies." 

"  Belay  there,  and  hearken." 

So  Old  Rogers  went  into  as  many  particulars  as  he 
thought  fit,  to  prove  that  his  suspicion  as  to  the  state  of 
my  mind  was  correct ;  which  particulars  I  do  not  care 


A    COUNCIL   OF    FRIENDS.  537 

to  lay  in  a  collected  form  before  my  reader,  he  being  in 
no  need  of  such  a  summing  up  to  give  his  verdict,  seeing 
the  parson  has  already  pleaded  guilty.  When  he  had 
finished, 

"  Supposing  all  you  say,  Old  Rogers,"  remarked  Tho- 
mas, "I  don't  yet  see  what  ze/^V<?  got  to  do  with  it. 
Parson  ought  to  know  best  what  he  's  about" 

"  But  my  daughter  tells  me,"  said  Rogers,  "  that  Miss 
Oldcastle  has  no  mind  to  marry  Captain  Everard.  And 
she  thinks  if  parson  would  only  speak  out  he  might  have 
a  chance." 

Weir  made  no  reply,  and  was  silent  so  long,  with  his 
head  bent,  that  Rogers  grew  impatient. 

"Well,  man,  ha'  you  nothing  to  say  now — not  for 
your  best  friend — on  earth,  I  mean — and  that's  parson? 
It  may  seem  a  small  matter  to  you,  but  it 's  no  small 
matter  to  parson." 

"  Small  to  me ! "  said  Weir,  and  taking  up  his  tool,  a 
constant  recourse  with  him  when  agitated,  he  began  to 
plane  furiously. 

Old  Rogers  now  saw  that  there  was  more  in  it  than  he 
had  thought,  and  held  his  peace  and  waited.  After  a 
minute  or  two  of  fierce  activity,  Thomas  lifted  up  a  face 
more  white  than  the  deal-board  he  was  planing,  and  said, 

"  You  should  have  come  to  the  point  a  little  sooner, 
Old  Rogers." 

He  then  laid  down  his  plane,  and  went  out  of  the 
workshop,  leaving  Rogers  standing  there  in  bewilder- 
ment. But  he  was  not  gone  many  minutes.  He  re* 
turned  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 


538  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

**  There,"  he  said,  giving  it  to  Rogers. 

"  I  can't  read  hand  o'  write,"  relumed  Rogers.  "  I 
ha'  enough  ado  with  straight-foret  print.  But  I  '11  take 
it  to  parson." 

"  On  no  account,"  returned  Thomas,  emphatically 
*'  That's  not  what  I  gave  it  you  for.  Neither  you  noi 
parson  has  any  right  to  read  that  letter;  and  I  don't 
want  either  of  you  to  read  it.     Can  Jane  read  writing?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  she  can,  for,  you  see,  what  makes 
lasses  take  to  writin'  is  when  their  young  man 's  over  the 
seas,  leastways  not  in  the  mill  over  the  brook." 

"  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  said  Thomas,  and  taking 
the  letter  from  Rogers's  hand,  he  left  the  shop  again. 

He  returned  once  more  with  the  letter  sealed  up  in  an 
envelope,  addressed  to  Miss  Oldcastle. 

"  Now,  you  tell  your  Jane  to  give  that  to  Miss  Old- 
castle from  me — mind,  from  me;  and  she  must  give  it 
into  her  own  hands,  and  let  no  one  else  see  it.  And  I 
must  have  it  again.  Mind  you  tell  her  all  that,  Old 
Rogers." 

"1  wilL  It's  for  Miss  Oldcastle,  and  no  one  else  to 
know  on't  And  you're  to  have  it  again  all  safe  when 
done  with." 

"  Yes.    Can  you  tryst  Jane  not  to  go  talking  about  it  ?" 

"  I  think  I  can.  I  ought  to,  anyhow.  But  she  can't 
know  anythink  in  the  letter  now,  Mr  Weir." 

"  I  know  that ;  but  Marshmallows  is  a  talkin'  place. 
And  poor  Kate  ain't  right  out  o'  hearin'  yet. — You'll 
come  and  see  her  buried  to-morrow,  won't  ye,  Old 
Rogers  1"  . 


A   COUNCIL   OF    FRIENDS.  535 


"  I  will,  Thomas.  You  've  had  a  troubled  life,  but 
tliank  God  the  sun  came  out  a  bit  before  she  died." 

"  That 's  true,  Rogers.  It 's  all  right,  I  do  think, 
though  I  grumbled  long  and  sore.  But  Jane  mustn't 
speak  of  that  letter." 

"  No.     That  she  shan't." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  some  day  what 's  in  it  But  I  can't 
bear  to  talk  about  it  yet." 

And  so  they  parted. 

I  was  too  unwell  still  either  to  be  able  to  bury  my 
dead  out  of  my  sight  or  to  comfort  my  living  the  next 
Sunday.  I  got  help  from  Addicehead,  however,  and  the 
dead  bodies  were  laid  aside  in  the  ancient  wardrobe  of 
the  tomb.  They  were  both  buried  by  my  vestry-door, 
Catherine  where  I  had  found  young  Tom  lying,  namely, 
in  the  grave  of  her  mother,  and  old  Mrs  Tomkins  on  the 
other  side  of  the  path. 

On  Sunday,  Rogers  gave  his  daughter  the  letter,  and 
she  carried  it  to  the  Hall.  It  was  not  till  she  had  to 
wait  on  her  mistress'  before  leaving  her  for  the  night 
that  she  found  an  opportunity  of  giving  it  into  her  own 
hands. 

Then  when  her  bell  rang,  Jane  went  up  to  her  room, 
and  found  her  so  pale  and  haggard  that  she  was  fright- 
ened. She  had  thrown  herself  back  on  the  couch,  with 
her  hands  lying  by  her  sides,  as  if  she  cared  for  nothing 
in  this  world  or  out  of  it.  But  when  Jane  entered,  she 
started  and  sat  up,  and  tried  to  look  like  herself.  Her 
face,  however,  was  so  pitiful,  that  honest-hearted  Jane 
could  not  help  crying,  upon  which  the  responsive  sister- 


540  ANNALS    OP    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

hood  overcame  the  proud  lady,  and  she  cried  too. 
Jane  had  all  but  forgotten  the  letter,  of  the  import  of 
which  she  had  no  idea,  for  her  father  had  taken  care 
to  rouse  no  suspicions  in  her  mind.  But  when  she  saw 
her  cry,  the  longing  to  give  her  something,  which  comes 
to  us  all  when  we  witness  trouble — for  giving  seems  to 
mean  everything^-brought  to  her  mind  the  letter  she 
had  undertaken  to  deliver  to  her.  Now  she  had  no 
notion,  as  I  have  said,  that  the  letter  had  anything  to 
do  with  her  present  perplexity,  but  she  hoped  it  might 
divert  her  thoughts  for  a  moment,  which  is  all  that  love 
at  a  distance  can  look  for  sometimes. 

"  Here  is  a  letter,"  said  Jane,  "  that  Mr  Weir  the 
carpenter  gave  to  my  father  to  give  to  me  to  bring  to 
you,  miss." 

"  What  is  it  about,  Jane  1 "  she  asked  listlessly. 

Then  a  sudden  flash  broke  from  her  eyes,  and  she 
held  out  her  hand  eagerly  to  take  it.  She  opened  it 
and  read  it  with  changing  colour,  but  when  she  had 
finished  it,  her  cheeks  were  crimson,  and  her  eyes 
glowing  like  fire. 

"  The  wretch,"  she  said,  and  threw  the  letter  fioia 
her  into  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

Jane,  who  remembered  the  injunctions  of  her  father 
as  to  the  safety  and  return  of  the  letter,  stooped  to 
pick  it  up  :  but  had  hardly  raised  herself  when  the  door 
opened,  and  in  came  Mrs  Oldcastle.  The  moment  she 
saw  her  mother,  Ethelwyn  rose,  and  advancing  to  meet 
her,  said. 


A    COUNCIL    OF    FRIENDS.  54I 

"  Mother,  I  will  not  marry  that  man.  You  may  do 
what  you  please  with  me,  but  I  will  not." 

"  Heigho  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs  Oldcastle  with  spread 
nostrils,  and  turning  suddenly  upon  Jane,  snatched  the 
letter  out  of  her  hand. 

She  opened  and  read  it,  her  face  getting  more  still 
and  stony  as  she  read.  Miss  Oldcastle  stood  and  looked 
at  her  mother  with  cheeks  now  pale  but  with  still  flash- 
ing eyes.  The  moment  her  mother  had  finished  the 
letter,  she  walked  swiftly  to  the  fire,  tearing  the  letter 
as  she  went,  and  thrust  it  between  the  bars,  pushing  it 
in  fiercely  with  the  poker,  and  muttering — 

"  A  vile  forgery  of  those  low  Chartist  wretches  !  As 
if  he  would  ever  have  looked  at  one  of  their  women  ! 
A  low  conspiracy  to  get  money  from  a  gentleman  in  his 
honourable  position  ! " 

And  for  the  first  time  since  she  went  to  the  Hall, 
Jane  said,  there  was  colour  in  that  dead  white  face. 

She  turned  once  more,  fiercer  than  ever,  upon  Jane, 
and  in  a  tone  of  rage  under  powerful  repression,  be- 
gan :— 

"  You  leave  the  house — this  instant." 

The  last  two  words,  notwithstanding  her  self-com- 
mand, rose  to  a  scream.  And  she  came  from  the  fire 
towards  Jane,  who  stood  trembling  near  the  door,  with 
such  an  expression  on  her  countenance  that  absolute 
fear  drove  her  from  the  room  before  she  knew  what 
jhe  was  about.  The  locking  of  the  door  behind  her 
let  her  know  that  she  had  abandoned  her  young  mis' 


542  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

tress  to  the  madness  of  her  mother's  evil  temper  and 
disposition.  But  it  was  too  late.  She  lingered  by  the 
door  and  listened,  but  beyond  an  occasional  hoarse 
tone  of  suppressed  energy,  she  heard  nothing.  At 
length  the  lock  as  suddenly  turned,  and  she  was  sur- 
prised by  Mrs  Oldcastle,  if  not  in  a  listening  attitude, 
at  least  where  she  had  no  right  to  be  after  the  dismissal 
she  had  received. 

Opposite  Miss  Oldcastle's  bedroom  was  another, 
seldom  used,  the  door  of  which  was  now  standing  open. 
Instead  of  speaking  to  Jane,  Mrs  Oldcastle  gave  her  a 
violent  push,  which  drove  her  into  this  room.  There- 
upon she  shut  the  door  and  locked  it  Jane  spent  the 
whole  of  the  night  in  that  room,  in  no  small  degree  of 
trepidation  as  to  what  might  happen  next.  But  she 
heard  no  noise  all  the  rest  of  the  night,  part  of  which, 
however,  was  spent  in  sound  sleep,  for  Jane's  conscience 
was  in  no  ways  disturbed  as  to  any  part  she  had  played 
in  the  current  events. 

It  was  not  till  the  morning  that  she  examined  the 
door,  to  see  if  she  could  not  manage  to  get  out  and 
escape  from  the  house,  for  she  shared  with  the  rest  of 
the  family  an  indescribable  fear  of  Mrs  Oldcastle  and 
her  confidante,  the  White  Wolf.  But  she  found  it  was 
of  no  use  :  the  lock  was  at  least  as  strong  as  the  door. 
Being  a  sensible  girl  and  self-possessed,  as  her  parents' 
child  ought  to  be,  she  made  no  noise,  but  waited 
patiently  for  what  might  come.  At  length,  hearing  a 
step  in  the  passage,  she  tapped  gently  at  the  door  and 
called,  "  Who 's  there  1 "     The  cook's  voice  answered. 


A   COUNCIL   OF    FRIENDS.  $43 

"  Let  me  out,"  said  Jane.  "  The  door's  locked." 
The  cook  tried,  but  found  there  was  no  key.  Jane 
told  her  how  she  came  there,  and  the  cook  promised 
to  get  her  out  as  soon  as  she  could.  Meantime  all  she 
could  do  for  her  was  to  hand  her  a  loaf  of  bread  on  a 
stick  from  the  next  window.  It  had  been  long  dark 
before  some  one  unlocked  the  door,  and  left  her  at 
liberty  to  go  where  she  pleased,  of  which  she  did  not 
fail  to  make  immediate  use. 

Unable  to  find  her  young  mistress,  she  packed  her 
box,  and,  leaving  it  behind  her,  escaped  to  her  father. 
As  soon  as  she  had  told  him  the  story,  he  came  straight 
to  me> 


CHAPTER  XXXIt 

THE  NEXT  THING. 

|S  I  sat  in  my  study,  in  the  twilight  of  that 
same  day,  the  door  was  hurriedly  opened, 
and  Judy  entered.  She  looked  about  the 
room  with  a  quick  glance  to  see  that  we 
were  alone,  then  caught  my  hand  in  both  of  hers,  and 
burst  out  crying. 

"  Why,  Judy ! "  I  said,  «* what  is  the  matter?" 
But  the  sobs  would  not  allow  her  to  answer.  I  was 
too  frightened  to  put  any  more  questions,  and  so  stood 
silent — my  chest  feeling  like  an  empty  tomb  that  waited 
for  death  to  fill  it.  At  length  with  a  strong  effort  she 
checked  the  succession  of  her  sobs,  and  spoke. 

"  They  are  killing  auntie.     She  looks  like  a  ghost 
already,"  said  the  child,  again  bursting  into  tears. 
"  Tell  me,  Judy,  what  can  I  do  for  herl" 
"You  must  find  out,  Mr  Walton.     If  you  loved  her 
as  much  as  I  do,  you  would  find  out  what  to  do." 


THE    NEXT    THING.  545 


"  But  she  will  not  let  me  do  anything  for  her." 

"  Yes,  she  will.  She  says  you  promised  to  help  hei 
some  day." 

"  Did  she  send  you,  then?" 

"  No.     She  did  not  send  me." 

"  Then  how — what — what  can  I  do  1 " 

"  Oh,  you  exact  people  !  You  must  have  everything 
square  and  in  print  before  you  move.  If  it  had  been 
me  now,  wouldn't  I  have  been  off  like  a  shot !  Do  get 
your  hat,  Mr  Walton." 

"  Come,  then,  Judy.  I  will  go  at  once. — Shall  I  see 
her?" 

And  every  vein  throbbed  at  the  thought  of  rescuing 
her  from  her  persecutors,  though  I  had  not  yet  the 
smallest  idea  how  it  was  to  be  effected. 

"We  will  talk  about  that  as  we  go,"  said  Judy, 
authoritatively. 

In  a  moment  more  we  were  in  the  open  air.  It  was 
a  still  night,  with  an  odour  of  damp  earth,  and  a  hint 
of  green  buds  in  it  A  pale  half-moon  hung  in  the  sky, 
now  and  then  hidden  by  the  clouds  that  swept  across 
it,  for  there  was  wind  in  the  heavens,  though  upon  earth 
all  was  still.  I  offered  Judy  my  arm,  but  she  took  my 
hand,  and  we  walked  on  without  a  word  till  we  had  got 
through  the  village  and  out  upon  the  road. 

"  Now,  Judy,"  I  said  at  last,  "  tell  me  what  they  are 
doing  to  your  aunt  1 " 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  are  doing.  But  I  am  sure 
she  will  die." 

♦'IssheilU" 

2  M 


54^  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


"  She  is  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  will  not  leave  her 
room.  Grannie  must  have  frightened  her  dreadfully. 
Everybody  is  frightened  at  her  but  me,  and  I  begin  to 
be  frightened  too.  And  what  will  become  of  auntie 
then?" 

*'  Put  what  can  her  mother  do  to  herl" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  it  is  her  determination  to 
have  her  own  way  that  makes  auntie  afraid  she  will  get 
it  somehow  ;  and  she  says  now  she  will  rather  die  than 
marry  Captain  Everard.  Then  there  is  no  one  allowed 
to  wait  on  her  but  Sarah,  and  I  know  the  very  sight  of 
her  is  enough  to  turn  auntie  sick  almost  What  has 
become  of  Jane  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  seen  her  all 
day,  and  the  servants  are  whispering  together  more 
than  usual.  Auntie  can't  eat  what  Sarah  brings  her,  I 
am  sure ;  else  I  shoikld  almost  fancy  she  was  starving 
herself  to  death  to  keep  clear  of  that  Captain  Everard." 

«  Is  he  still  at  the  Hall  ] " 

"  Yes.  But  I"  don't  think  it  is  altogether  his  fault. 
Grannie  won't  let  him  go.  I  don't  believe  he  knows 
how  determined  auntie  is  not  to  marry  him.  Only,  to 
be  sure,  though  grannie  never  lets  her  have  more  than 
five  shillings  in  her  pocket  at  a  time,  she  will  be  worth 
something  when  she  is  married." 

"Nv^diing  can  make  her  worth  more  than  she  is, 
Judy,"  I  said,  perhaps  with  some  discontent  in  my  tone. 

"That's  as  you  and  I  think,  Mr  Walton;  not  as 
grannie  and  the  captain  think  at  all.  I  daresay  he  would 
not  care  much  more  than  grannie  whether  she  was  will- 
ing or  not,  so  long  as  she  married  him." 


THE    NEXT    THING.  547 


"  But,  Judy,  we  must  have  some  plan  laid  before  we 
reach  the  Hall ;  else  my  coming  will  be  of  no  use." 

"  Of  coarse.  I  know  how  much  I  can  do,  and  you 
must  arrange  the  rest  with  her.  I  will  take  you  to  the 
little  room  up-stairs— we  call  it  the  octagon.  That  you 
know  is  just  under  auntie's  room.  They  will  be  at  din- 
ner— the  captain  and  grannie.  I  will  leave  you  there^ 
and  tell  auntie  that  you  want  to  see  her." 

«  But,  Judy, " 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  her,  Mr  Walton]'* 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  more  than  you  can  thinL" 

«  Then  I  will  tell  her  so." 

"  But  will  she  come  to  me  1 " 

"  I  don't  know.     We  have  to  find  that  out.** 

"  Very  well.     I  leave  myself  in  your  hands." 

I  was  now  perfectly  collected.  All  my  dubitation  and 
distress  were  gone,  for  I  had  something  to  do,  although 
what  I  could  not  yet  tell.  That  she  did  not  love  Cap- 
tain Everard  was  plain,  and  that  she  had  as  yet  resisted 
her  mother  was  also  plain,  though  it  was  not  equally 
certain  that  she  would,  if  left  at  her  mercy,  go  on  to 
resist  her.  This  was  what  I  hoped  to  strengthen  her  to 
do.  I  saw  nothing  more  within  my  reach  as  yet.  But 
from  what  I  knew  of  Miss  Oldcastle,  I  saw  plainly 
enough  that  no  greater  good  could  be  done  for  her  than 
this  enabling  to  resistance.  Self-assertion  was  so  foreign 
to  her  nature,  that  it  needed  a  sense  of  duty  to  rouse  her 
even  to  self-defence.  As  I  have  said  jpefore,  she  was 
clad  in  the  mail  of  endurance,  but  was  utterly  without 
weapons.     And  there  was  a  danger  of  her  conduct  and 


548  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

then  of  her  mind  giving  way  at  last,  from  the  gradual 
mroads  of  weakness  upon  the  thews  w^hich  she  left  un- 
exercised. In  respect  of  this,  I  prayed  heartily  that  I 
might  help  her. 

Judy  and  I  scarcely  spoke  to  each  other  from  the 
moment  we  entered  the  gate  till  I  found  myself  at  a 
side  door  which  I  had  never  observed  till  now.  It  was 
fastened,  and  Judy  told  me  to  wait  till  she  went  in  and 
opened  it.  The  moon  was  now  quite  obscured,  and  I 
was  under  no  apprehension  of  discovery.  While  I  stood 
there  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  Dr  Duncan's  story, 
and  reflecting  that  the  daughter  was  now  returning  the 
kindness  shown  to  the  mother. 

I  had  not  to  wait  long  before  the  door  opened  behind 
me  noiselessly,  and  I  stepped  into  the  dark  house.  Judy 
took  me  by  the  hand,  and  led  me  along  a  passage,  and 
then  up  a  stair  into  the  little  drawing-room.  There  was 
no  light  She  led  me  to  a  seat  at  the  farther  end,  and 
opening  a  door  close  beside  me,  left  me  in  the  dark. 

There  I  sat  so  long  that  I  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing, 
broken  ever  by  startled  expectation.  Castle  after  castle 
I  built  up ;  castle  after  castle  fell  to  pieces  in  my  hands. 
Still  she  did  not  come.  At  length  I  got  so  restless  and 
excited  that  only  the  darkness  kept  me  from  starting  up 
and  pacing  the  room.  Still  she  did  not  come,  and  partly 
from  weakness,  partly  from  hope  deferred,  I  found  my- 
self beginning  to  tremble  all  over.  Nor  could  I  control 
myself.  As  the  trembling  increased,  I  grew  alarmed  lest 
I  should  become  unable  to  carry  out  all  that  might  be 
necessary. 


THE    NEXT    THING.  549 

Suddenly  from  out  of  the  dark  a  hand  settled  on  my 
arm.  I  looked  up  and  could  just  see  the  whiteness  of  a 
face.  Before  I  could  speak,  a  voice  said  brokenly,  in  a 
half  whisper  : — 

"  Will  you  save  me,  Mr  Walton  1  But  you  're  trem- 
bling ;  you  are  ill ;  you  ought  not  to  have  come  to  me. 
I  will  get  you  something." 

And  she  moved  to  go,  but  I  held  her.  All  my  trem- 
bling was  gone  in  a  moment.  Her  words,  so  careful  of 
me  even  in  her  deep  misery,  went  to  my  heart  and  gave 
me  strength.  The  suppressed  feelings  of  many  months 
rushed  to  my  lips.  What  I  said  I  do  not  know,  but  I 
know  that  I  told  her  I  loved  her.  And  I  know  that  she 
did  not  draw  her  hand  from  mine  when  I  said  so. 

But  ere  I  ceased  came  a  revulsion  of  feeling. 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  said,  "  I  am  selfishness  itself  to  speak 
to  you  thus  now,  to  take  advantage  of  your  misery  to 
make  you  listen  to  mine.  But,  at  least,  it  will  make  you 
sure  that  if  all  I  am,  all  I  have  will  save  you -" 

"  But  I  am  saved  already,"  she  interposed,  "  if  you 
love  me — for  I  love  you." 

And  for  some  moments  there  were  no  words  to  speak. 
I  stood  holding  her  hand,  conscious  only  of  God  and 
her.     At  last  I  said  : 

"  There  is  no  time  now  but  for  action.  Nor  do  I  see 
anything  but  to  go  with  me  at  once.  Will  you  come 
home  to  my  sister]  Or  I  will  take  you  wherever  you 
please." 

"  I  will  go  with  you  anywhere  you  think  best  Only 
take  me  aAvay." 


5SO  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  Put  on  your  bonnet,  then,  and  a  warm  cloak,  anc* 
we  will  settle  all  about  it  as  we  go." 

She  had  scarcely  left  the  room  when  Mrs  Oldcastle 
came  to  the  door. 

"  No  lights  here  ! "  she  said.  "  Sarah,  bring  candles, 
and  tell  Captain  Everard,  when  he  will  join  us,  to  come 
to  the  octagon  room.  Where  can  that  little  Judy  be  1 
The  child  gets  more  and  more  troublesome,  I  do  think. 
I  must  take  her  in  hand." 

I  had  been  in  great  perplexity  how  to  let  her  know 
that  I  was  there  ;  for  to  announce  yourself  to  a  lady  by 
a  voice  out  of  the  darkness  of  her  boudoir,  or  to  wait 
for  candles  to  discover  you  where  she  thought  she  was 
quite  alone — neither  is  a  pleasant  way  of  presenting 
yourself  to  her  consciousness.  But  I  was  helped  out  of 
the  beginning  into  the  middle  of  my  difficulties,  once 
more  by  that  blessed  little  Judy.  I  did  not  know  she 
was  in  the  room  till  I  heard  her  voice.  Nor  do  I  yet 
know  how  much  she  had  heard  of  the  conversation  be- 
tween her  aunt  and  myself;  for  although  I  sometimes 
see  her  look  roguish  even  now  that  she  is  a  middle- 
aged  woman  with  many  children,  when  anything  is  said 
which  might  be  supposed  to  have  a  possible  reference 
to  that  night,  I  have  never  cared  to  ask  her. 

"  Here  I  am,  grannie,"  said  her  voice.  "  But  I 
won't  be  taken  in  hand  by  you  or  any  one  else.  I 
tell  you  that.  So  mind.  And  Mr  Walton  is  here, 
too,  and  Aunt  Ethelwyn  is  going  out  with  him  for  a 
long  walk." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  silly  child  1 " 


THK    NEXT    THING.  551 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  and  "  Miss  Judy  speaks  the 
truth,"  fell  together  from  her  lips  and  mine. 

"  Mr  Walton,"  began  Mrs  Oldcastle,  indignantly,  "  it 
rs  scarcely  like  a  gentleman  to  come  where  you  are  not 
wanted ^" 

Here  Judy  interrupted  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  grannie,  Mr  Walton  was  wanted 
• — very  much  wanted.     I  went  and  fetched  him." 

But  Mrs  Oldcastle  went  on  unheeding. 

" and   to   be   sitting  in  my  room   in  the   dark 

too  ! " 

"  That  couldn't  be  helped,  grannie.  Here  comes 
Sarah  with  candles." 

"  Sarah,"  said  Mrs  Oldcastle,  "  ask  Captain  Everard 
10  be  kind  enough  to  step  this  way." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Sarah,  witli  an  untranslatable 
look  at  me  as  she  set  down  the  candles. 

We  could  now  see  each  other.  Knowing  words  to 
be  but  idle  breath,  I  would  not  complicate  matters  by 
speech,  but  stood  silent,  regarding  Mrs  Oldcastle.  Sha 
on  her  part  did  not  flinch,  but  returned  my  look  with 
one  both  haughty  and  contemptuous.  In  a  i^v^  mo- 
ments. Captain  Everard  entered,  bowed  slightly,  and 
looked  to  Mrs  Oldcastle  as  if  for  an  explanation. 
Whereupon  she  spoke,  but  to  me. 

*'  Mr  Walton,"  she  said,  "  will  you  explain  to  Captain 
Everard  to  what  we  owe  the  tmexpected  pleasure  of  a 
»^isit  from  you  ? " 

"  Captain  Everard  has  no  claim  to  any  explanation 
from  me.     To  you,    Mrs  Oldcastle,  I  would  have  an- 


552  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


swered,  had  you  asked  me,  that  I  was  waiting  for  Miss 
Oldcastle." 

"  Pray  inform  Miss  Oldcastle,  Judy,  that  Mr  Walton 
insists  upon  seeing  her  at  once." 

*'  That  is  quite  unnecessary.  Miss  Oldcastle  will  be 
here  presently,"  I  said. 

Mrs  Oldcastle  turned  slightly  livid  with  wrath.  She 
was  always  white,  as  I  have  said  :  the  change  I  can 
describe  only  by  the  word  I  have  used,  indicating  a 
bluish  darkening  of  the  whiteness.  She  walked  towards 
the  door  beside  me.     I  stepped  between  her  and  it. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs  Oldcastle.  That  is  the  way  to 
Miss  Oldcastle's  room.     I  am  here  to  protect  her." 

Without  saying  a  word  she  turned  and  looked  at 
Captain  Everard.  He  advanced  with  a  long  stride  of 
determination.  But  ere  he  reached  me,  the  door  be- 
hind me  opened,  and  Miss  Oldcastle  appeared  in  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  carrying  a  small  bag  in  her  hand. 
Seeing  how  things  were,  the  moment  she  entered,  she 
put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  stood  fronting  the  enemy 
with  me.  Judy  was  on  my  right,  her  eyes  flashing,  and 
her  cheek  as  red  as  a  peony,  evidently  prepared  to  do 
battle  d  totite  oiitrance  for  her  friends. 

"  Miss  Oldcastle,  go  to  your  room  instantly,  I  com- 
mand you,"  said  her  mother ;  and  she  approached  as  if 
to  remove  her  hand  from  my  arm.  I  put  my  other 
arm  between  her  and  her  daughter. 

"  No,  Mrs  Oldcastle,"  I  said.  "  You  have  lost  all  a 
mother's  rights  by  ceasing  to  behave  like  a  mother, 
Miss  Oldcastle  will  never  more  do  anything  in  obedi- 


THE    NEXT    THING.  55.'^ 

ence  to  your  commands^  whatever  she  may  do  in  com- 
pliance with  your  wishes." 

"  Allow  me  to  remark,"  said  Captain  Everard,  with 
attempted  nonchalance,  "  that  that  is  strange  doctrine 
for- your  cloth." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  my  cloth,  then,"  I  answered, 
"and  the  better  for  yours  if  it  leads  you  to  act  more 
honourably." 

Still  keeping  himself  entrenched  in  the  affectation  of 
a  supercilious  indifference,  he  smiled  haughtily,  and 
gave  a  look  of  dramatic  appeal  to  Mrs  Oldcastle. 

"  At  least,"  said  that  lady,  "  do  not  disgrace  yourself, 
Ethelvvyn,  by  leaving  the  house  in  this  unaccountable 
manner  at  night  and  on  foot.  If  you  will  leave  the 
protection  of  your  mother's  roof,  wait  at  least  till  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  would  rather  spend  the  night  in  the  open  air 
than  pass  another  under  your  roof,  mother.  You  have 
been  a  strange  mother  to  me — and  Dorothy  too  ! " 

"  At  least  do  not  put  your  character  in  question  by 
going  in  this  unmaidenly  fashion.  People  will  talk  to 
your  prejudice — and  Mr  Walton's  too." 

Ethelwyn  smiled. — She  was  now  as  collected  as  I 
was,  seeming  to  have  cast  off  all  her  weakness.  My 
heart  was  uplifted  more  than  I  can  say. — She  knew 
her  mother  too  well  to  be  caught  by  the  change  in  her 
tone. 

1  had  not  hitherto  interrupted  her  once  when  she 
took  the  answer  upon  herself,  for  she  was  not  one  to 
be  checked  when  she  chose  to  speak.     But  now  she 


554  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

answered  nothing,  only  looked  at  me,  and  I  understood 
her,  of  course. 

"  They  will  hardly  have  time  to  do  so,  I  tiiist,  before 
it  will  be  out  of  their  power.  It  rests  with  Miss  Old- 
castle  herself  to  say  when  that  shall  be." 

As  if  she  had  never  suspected  that  such  was  the 
result  of  her  scheming,  Mrs  Oldcastle's  demeanour 
changed  utterly.  The  form  of  her  visage  was  altered. 
She  made  a  spring  at  her  daughter,  and  seized  her  by 
the  arm. 

"  Then  I  forbid  it,"  she  screamed ;  "  and  I  will  be 
obeyed.  I  stand  on  my  rights.  Go  to  your  room,  you 
minx." 

"There  is  no  law  human  or  divine  to  prevent  her 
from  marrying  whom  she  will.  How  old  are  you, 
Ethelwyn?" 

I  thought  it  better  to  seem  even  cooler  than  I  was. 

"  Twenty-seven,"  answered  Miss  Oldcastle. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  can  be  so  foolish,  Mrs  Oldcastle, 
as  to  think  you  have  the  slightest  hold  on  your 
daughter's  freedom  %     Let  her  arm  go." 

But  she  kept  her  grasp. 

"  You  hurt  me,  mother,"  said  Miss  Oldcastle. 

"  Hurt  you  1  you  smooth-faced  hypocrite !  I  will 
hurt  you  then  ! " 

But  I  took  Mrs  Oldcastle's  arm  in  my  hand,  and  she 
let  go  her  hold. 

"  How  dare  you  touch  a  woman  1 "  she  said. 

"  Because  she  has  so  far  ceased  to  be  a  woman  as  to 
torture  her  own  daughter." 


THE    NEXT    THING.  555 

Here  Captain  Everard  stepped  forward,  saying, — 

"  The  riot-act  ought  to  be  read,  I  think.  It  is  time 
for  the  miUtary  to  interfere." 

"  Well  put,  Captain  Everard,"  I  said.  "  Our  side  will 
disperse  if  you  will  only  leave  room  for  us  to  go." 

"  Possibly  /  may  have  something  to  say  in  the 
matter." 

"  Say  on." 

"  This  lady  has  jilted  me." 

"  Have  you,  Ethelwyn  ] " 

"  I  have  not." 

"  Then,  Captain  Everard,  you  lie.** 

"  You  dare  to  tell  me  so?" 

And  he  strode  a  pace  nearer. 

"It  needs  no  daring.  I  know  you  too  well;  and  so 
does  another  who  trusted  you  and  found  you  false  as 
hell." 

"  You  presume  on  your  cloth,  but "  he  said,  lift- 
ing his  hand. 

"  You  may  strike  me,  presuming  on  my  cloth,"  I  an- 
swered ;  "  and  I  will  not  return  your  blow.  Insult  me 
as  you  will,  and  I  will  bear  it.  Call  me  coward,  and  I 
will  say  nothing.  But  lay  one  hand  on  me  to  prevent 
me  from  doing  my  duty,  and  I  knock  you  down — or  find 
you  more  of  a  man  tlian  I  take  you  for." 

It  was  either  conscience  or  something  not  so  good 
that  made  a  coward  of  him.     He  turned  on  his  heel. 

"  I  really  am  not  sufficiently  interested  in  the  affair  to 
oppose  you.  You  may  take  the  girl  for  me.  Both  your 
cloth  and  the  presence  of  ladies  protect  your  insolence; 


556  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  do  not  like  brawling  where  one  cannot  fight     You 
•shall  hear  from  me  before  long,  Mr  Walton." 

"  No,  Captain  Everard,  I  shall  not  hear  from  you. 
You  know  you  dare  not  write  to  me.  I  know  that  of 
you  which,  even  on  the  code  of  the  duellist,  would  justify 
any  gentleman  in  refusing  to  meet  you.  Stand  out  of 
my  way ! " 

I  advanced  with  Miss  Oldcastle  on  my  arm.  He  drew 
back ;  and  we  left  the  room. 

As  we  reached  the  door,  Judy  bounded  after  us,  threw 
her  arms  round  her  aunt's  neck,  then  round  mine,  kiss- 
ing us  both,  and  returned  to  her  place  on  the  sofa.  Mr? 
Oldcastle  gave  a  scream,  and  sunk  fainting  on  a  chaii 
It  was  a  last  effort  to  detain  her  daughter  and  gain  time. 
Miss  Oldcastle  would  have  returned,  but  I  would  not 
permit  her. 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  she  will  be  better  without  you.  Judy, 
ring  the  bell  for  Sarah." 

"  How  dare  you  give  orders  in  my  house  1 "  exclaimed 
Mrs  Oldcastle,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  the  chair,  and 
shaking  her  fist  at  us.  Then  assuming  the  heroic,  she 
added,  "  From  this  moment  she  is  no  daughter  of  mine. 
Nor  can  you  touch  one  farthing  of  her  money,  sir.  You 
have  married  a  beggar  after  all,  and  that  you'll  both 
know  before  long." 

"  Thy  money  perish  with  thee  ! "  I  said,  and  repented 
the  moment  I  had  said  it  It  sounded  like  an  impreca- 
tion, and  I  know  I  had  no  correspondent  feeling ;  for, 
after  all,  she  was  the  mother  of  my  Ethelwyn     But  the 


THE    NEXT    THING.  557 

allusion  to  money  made  me  so  indignant,  that  the  words 
burst  from  me  ere  I  could  consider  their  import. 

The  cool  wind  greeted  us  like  the  breath  of  God,  as 
we  left  the  house  and  closed  the  door  behind  us.  The 
moon  was  shining  from  the  edge  of  a  vaporous  moun- 
tain, which  gradually  drew  away  from  her,  leaving  her 
alone  in  the  midst  of  a  lake  of  blue.  But  we  had  not 
gone  many  paces  from  the  house  when  Miss  Oldcastle 
began  to  tremble  violently,  and  could  scarcely  get  along 
with  all  the  help  I  could  give  her.  Nor,  for  the  space 
of  six  weeks  did  one  word  pass  between  us  about  the 
painful  occurrences  of  that  evening.  For  all  that  time 
she  was  quite  unable  to  bear  it 

When  we  managed  at  last  to  reach  the  vicarage,  I 
gave  her  in  charge  to  my  sister,  with  instructions  to  help 
her  to  bed  at  once,  while  I  went  for  Dr  Duncan. 


%^^^ 

mT^ 


CHAPTER  XXXIII.  • 
OLD  Rogers's  thanksgiving. 

FOUND  the  old  man  seated  at  his  dinner, 
which  he  left  immediately  when  he  heard 
that  Miss  Oldcastle  needed  his  help.  In  a 
few  words  I  told  him,  as  we  went,  the  story 
of  what  had  befallen  at  the  Hall,  to  which  he  listened 
with  the  interest  of  a  boy  reading  a  romance,  asking 
twenty  questions  about  the  particulars  which  I  hurried 
over.  Then  he  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand,  sayipg- — 
"  You  have  fairly  won  her,  Walton,  and  I  am  as  glad 
of  it  as  I  could  be  of  anything  I  can  think  of  She  is 
well  worth  all  you  must  have  suffered.  This  will  at 
length  remove  the  curse  from  that  wretched  family. 
You  have  saved  her  from  perhaps  even  a  worse  fate 
than  her  sister's."' 

'*  I  fear  she  will  be  ill,  though,"  I  said,  "  after  all  that 
she  has  gone  through." 

But  I  did  not  even  suspect  how  ill  she  woiUd  be 


OLD    ROGERS's    THANKSGIVING.  559 

As  soon  as  I  heard  Dr  Duncan's  opinion  of  her,  which 
was  not  very  definite,  a  great  fear  seized  upon  me  that 
I  was  destined  to  lose  her  after  all.  This  fear,  however, 
terrible  as  it  was,  did  not  torture  me  like  the  fear  that 
had  preceded  it.  I  could  oftener  feel  able  to  say,  "  Thy 
will  be  done  "  than  I  could  before. 

Dr  Duncan  was  hardly  out  of  the  house  when  Old 
Rogers  arrived,  and  was  shown  into  the  study.  He 
looked  excited.  I  allowed  him  to  tell  out  his  story, 
which  was  his  daughter's  of  course,  without  interruption. 
He  ended  by  saying  : — 

"  Now,  sir,  you  really  must  do  summat.  This  won't 
do  in  a  Christian  country.  We  ain't  aboard  ship  here 
with  a  nor'-easter  a-walkin'  the  quarter-deck." 

"  There 's  no  occasion,  my  dear  old  fellow,  to  do  any- 
thing." 

He  was  taken  aback. 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr  Walton.  You're 
the  last  man  I  'd  have  expected  to  hear  argufy  for  faith 
without  works.  It 's  right  to  trust  in  God ;  but  if  you 
don't  stand  to  your  halliards,  your  craft  '11  miss  stays, 
and  your  faith  '11  be  blown  out  of  the  bolt-ropes  in  the 
turn  of  a  marlinspike." 

I  suspect  there  was  some  confusion  in  the  figure,  but 
the  old  man's  meaning  was  plain  enough.  Nor  would  I 
keep  him  in  a  moment  more  of  suspense. 

"  Miss  Oldcastle  is  in  the  house.  Old  Rogers,"  I  said. 

"What  house,  sir?"  returned  the  old  man,  his  gray 
eyes  opening  wider  as  he  spoke. 

"  This  house,  to  be  sure." 


560  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

I  shall  never  forget^ the  look  the  old  man  cast  upwards, 
or  the  reality  given  to  it  by  the  ordinarily  odd  sailor- 
fashion  of  pulling  his  forelock,  as  he  returned  inward 
thanks  to  the  Father  of  all  for  His  kindness  to  his  friend. 
And  never  in  my  now  wide  circle  of  readers  shall  I  find 
one,  the  most  educated  and  responsive,  who  will  listen 
to  my  story  with  a  more  gracious  interest  than  that  old 
man  showed  as  I  recounted  to  him  the  adventures  of  the 
evening.  There  were  few  to  whom  I  could  have  told 
them  :  to  Old  Rogers  I  felt  that  it  was  right  and  natural 
and  dignified  to  tell  the  story  even  of  my  love's  victory. 

How  then  am  I  able  to  tell  it  to  the  world  as  nowl 
I  can  easily  explain  the  seeming  inconsistency.  It  is 
not  merely  that  I  am  speaking,  as  I  have  said  before, 
from  behind  a  screen,  or  as  clothed  in  the  coat  of  dark- 
ness of  an  anonymous  writer;  but  I  find  that,  as  I  come 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  invisible  world,  all  my  brothers 
and  sisters  grow  dearer  and  dearer  to  me  ;  I  feel  towards 
them  more  and  more  as  the  children  of  my  Father  in 
heaven ;  and  although  some  of  them  are  good  children 
and  some  naughty  children,  some  very  lovable  and  some 
hard  to  love,  yet  I  never  feel  that  they  are  below  me, 
or  unfit  to  listen  to  the  story  even  of  my  love,  if  they 
only  care  to  listen  ;  and  if  they  do  not  care,  there  is  no 
harm  done,  except  they  read  it.  Even  should  they,  and 
then  scoff  at  what  seemed  and  seems  to  me  the  precious 
story,  I  have  these  defences  :  first,  that  it  was  not  for 
them  that  I  cast  forth  my  precious  pearls,  for  precious 
to  me  is  the  significance  of  every  fact  in  my  history — 
not  that  it  is  mine,  for  I  have  only  been  as  clay  in  the 


OLD    ROGERS'S    THANKSGIVING.  56I 

hands  of  the  potter,  but  that  it  is»God's,  who  made  my 
history  as  it  seemed  and  was  good  to  Him ;  and  second, 
that  even  should  they  trample  them  under  their  feet,  they 
cannot  well  get  at  me  to  rend  me.  And  more,  the 
nearer  I  come  to  the  region  beyond,  the  more  I  feel 
that  in  that  land  a  man  needs  not  shrink  from  uttering 
liis  deepest  thoughts,  inasmuch  as  he  that  understands 
them  not  will  not  therefore  revile  him. — "  But  you  are 
not  there  yet  You  are  in  the  land  in  which  the  brother 
speaketh  evil  of  that  which  he  understandeth  not." — 
True,  friend;  too  true.  But  I  only  do  as  Dr  Donne 
did  in  writing  that  poem  in  his  sickness,  when  he  thought 
he  was  near  to  the  world  of  which  we  speak :  I  rehearse 
now,  that  I  may  find  it  easier  then. 

"  Since  I  am  coining  to  that  holy  room, 

Where,  with  the  choir  of  saints  for  evermor^ 
I  shall  be  made  thy  music,  as  I  come, 
I  tune  the  instrument  here  at  the  door ; 
And  what  I  must  do  then,  think  here  before." 

When  Rogers  had  thanked  God,  he  rose,  took  my 
hand,  and  said  : — 

"  Mr  Walton,  you  will  preach  now.  I  thank  God  for 
the  good  we  shall  all  get  from  the  trouble  you  have  gone 
through." 

"  I  ought  to  be  the  better  for  it,"  I  answered. 

"  You  will  be  the  better  for  it,"  he  returned.  "  I  be- 
lieve I  've  alius  been  the  better  for  any  trouble  as  ever 
I  had  to  go  through  with.  I  couldn't  quite  say  the  same 
for  every  bit  of  good  luck  I  had ;  leastways,  I  consider 

2  N 


562  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

trouble  the  best  luck  a  man  can  have.  And  I  wish  you 
a  good  night,  sir.     Thank  God !  again." 

"  But,  Rogers,  you  don't  mean  it  would  be  good  foi 
us  to  have  bad  luck  always,  do  you  1  You  shouldn't  be 
pleased  at  what 's  come  to  me  now,  in  that  case." 

"  No,  sir,  sartinly  not." 

"  How  can  you  say,  then,  that  bad  luck  is  the  best 
luck  1 " 

"  I  mean  the  bad  luck  that  comes  to  us — not  the  bad 
luck  that  doesn't  come.  But  you're  right,  sir.  Good 
luck  or  bad  luck 's  both  best  when  He  sends  'em,  as  He 
alius  does.  In  fac',  sir,  there  is  no  bad  luck  but  what 
conies  out  o'  the  man  hisself.     The  rest 's  all  good." 

But  whether  it  was  the  consequence  of  a  reaction  from 
the  mental  strain  I  had  suffered,  or  the  depressing  effect 
of  Miss  Oldcastle's  illness  coming  so  close  upon  the  joy 
of  winning  her;  or  that  I  was  more  careless  and  less 
anxious  to  do  my  duty  than  I  ought  to  have  been-r-I 
greatly  fear  that  Old  Rogers  must  have  been  pa^fully 
disappointed  in  the  sermons  which  I  did  preach  for 
several  of  the  following  Sundays.  He  never  even  hinted 
at  such  a  fact,  but  I  felt  it  much  myself.  A  man  has 
often  to  be  humbled  through  failure,  especially  after  suc- 
cess. I  do  not  clearly  know  how  my  failures  worked 
upon  me ;  but  I  think  a  man  may  sometimes  get  spiritual 
good  without  being  conscious  of  the  point  of  its  arrival, 
or  being  able  to  trace  the  process  by  which  it  was 
wrought  in  him.  I  believe  that  my  failures  did  work 
some  humility  in  me,  and  a  certain  carelessness  of  out- 
ward success  even  in  spiritual  matters,  so  far  as  the  sue- 


OLD    ROGERS'S    THANKSGIVING.  563 

cess  affected  me,  provided  only  the  will  of  God  was  done 
in  the  dishonour  of  my  weakness.  And  I  think,  but  I 
am  not  sure,  that  soon  after  I  approached  this  condition 
of  mind,  I  began  to  preach  better.  But  still  I  found  for 
some  time  that  however  much  the  subject  of  my  sermon 
interested  me  in  my  study  or  in  the  church  or  vestry  on 
the  Saturday  evening ;  nay,  even  although  my  heart  was 
full  of  fervour  during  the  prayers  and  lessons ;  no  sooner 
had  I  begun  to  speak  than  the  glow  died  out  of  the  sky 
of  my  thoughts ;  a  dull  clearness  of  the  intellectual  facul- 
ties took  its  place ;  and  I  was  painfully  aware  that  what 
I  could  speak  without  being  moved  myself  was  not  the 
most  likely  utterance  to  move  the  feelings  of  those  who 
only  listened.  Still  a  man  may  occasionally  be  used  by 
the  Spirit  of  God  as  the  inglorious  *'  trumpet  of  a  pro- 
phecy" instead  of  being  inspired  with  the  life  of  the 
Word,  and  hence  speaking  out  of  a  full  heart  in  testi- 
mony of  that  which  he  hath  known  and  seen. 

I  hardly  remember  when  or  how  I  came  upon  the 
plan,  but  now,  as  often  as  I  find  myself  in  such  a  condi- 
tion, I  turn  away  from  any  attempt  to  produce  a  ser- 
mon; and,  taking  up  one  of  the  sayings  of  our  Lord 
which  He  himself  has  said  "  are  spirit  and  are  life,"  I 
labour  simply  to  make  the  people  see  in  it  what  I  see 
in  it ;  and  when  I  find  that  thus  my  own  heart  is  warmed, 
1  am  justified  in  the  hope  that  the  hearts  of  some  at 
least  of  my  hearers  are  thereby  warmed  likewise. 

But  no  doubt  the  fact  that  the  life  of  Miss  Oldcastle 
seemed  to  tremble  in  the  balance,  had  something  to  do 
with  those  results  of  which  I  may  have  already  said  too 


564  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

much.  My  design  had  been  to  go  at  once  to  London 
and  make  preparation  for  as  early  a  wedding  as  she 
would  consent  to ;  but  the  very  day  after  I  brought  hei 
home,  life  and  not  marriage  was  the  question.  Dr  Dun- 
can looked  very  grave,  and  although  he  gave  me  all  the 
encouragement  he  could,  all  his  encouragement  did  not 
amount  to  much.  There  was  such  a  lack  of  vitality 
about  her !  The  treatment  to  which  she  had  been  for 
so  long  a  time  subjected  had  depressed  her  till  life  was 
nearly  quenched  from  lack  of  hope.  Nor  did  the  sud- 
den change  seem  able  to  restore  the  healthy  action  oi 
what  the  old  physicians  called  the  animal  spirits.  Pos- 
sibly the  strong  reaction  paralysed  their  channels,  and 
thus  prevented  her  gladness  from  reaching  her  physical 
nature  so  as  to  operate  on  its  health.  Her  whole  com- 
plaint appeared  in  excessive  weakness.  Finding  that 
she  fainted  after  every  little  excitement,  I  left  her  for 
four  weeks  entirely  to  my  sister  and  Dr  Duncan,  during 
which  time  she  never  saw  me ;  and  it  was  long  before  I 
could  venture  to  stay  in  her  room  more  than  a  minute 
or  two.  But  as  the  summer  approached  she  began  to 
show  signs  of  reviving  life,  and  by  the  end  of  May  was 
able  to  be  wheeled  into  the  garden  in  a  chair. 

During  her  aunt's  illness,  Judy  came  often  to  the 
vicarage.  But  Miss  Oldcastle  was  unable  to  see  her  any 
more  than  myself  without  the  painful  consequence  which 
I  have  mentioned.  So  the  dear  child  always  came  to 
me  in  the  study,  and  through  her  endless  vivacity  in- 
fected me  with  some  of  her  hope.  For  she  had  no  feara 
whatever  about  her  aunt's  recovery. 


OLD    ROGERS's    THANKSGIVING.  565 

I  had  had  some  painful  apprehensions  as  to  the  treat- 
ment Judy  herself  might  meet  with  from  her  grand- 
mother, and  had  been  doubtful  whether  I  ought  not  to 
have  carried  her  off  as  well  as  her  aunt;  but  the  firsi 
time  she  came,  which  was  the  next  day,  she  set  my  mind 
at  rest  on  that  subject. 

"  But  does  your  grannie  know  where  you  are  come?" 
I  had  asked  her. 

"  So  well,  Mr  Walton,"  sne  replied,  "  that  there  Avas 
no  occasion  to  tell  her.  Why  shouldn't  I  rebel  as  well 
as  Aunt  Wynnie,  I  wonder?"  she  added,  looking  arch- 
ness itself. 

"  How  does  she  bear  it?'* 

"  Bear  what,  Mr  Walton  ]  * 

"  The  loss  of  your  aunt." 

"You  don't  think  grannie  cares  about  that,  do  yout 
She's  vexed  enough  at  the  loss  of  Captain  Everard, — 
Do  you  know,  I  think  he  had  too  much  wine  yesterday, 
or  he  wouldn't  have  made  quite  such  a  fool  of  himself." 

"  I  fear  he  hadn't  had  quite  enough  to  give  him  cour- 
age, Judy.  I  daresay  he  was  brave  enough  once,  but  a 
bad  coPocience  soon  destroys  a  man's  courage." 

"  Why  do  you  call  it  a  bad  conscience,  Mr  Walton  ] 
I  should  have  thought  that  a  bad  conscience  was  one 
that  would  let  a  girl  go  on  anyhow  and  say  nothing 
about  it  to  make  her  uncomfortable." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Judy ;  that  is  the  worst  kind  of 
conscience,  certainly.  But  tell  me,  how  does  Mrs  Old* 
castle  bear  it  ? " 

**  You  asked  me  that  already." 


566  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Somehow  Judy's  words  always  seem  more  pert  upon 
paper  than  they  did  upon  her  lips.  Her  naivete,  the 
twinkling  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  smile  flitting  about 
her  mouth,  always  modified  greatly  the  expression  of  hei 
words. 

" — Grannie  never  says  a  word  about  you  or  auntie 
either." 

"  But  you  said  she  was  vexed :  how  do  you  know 
thatl" 

"  Because  ever  since  the  captain  went  away  this  morn- 
ing, she  won't  speak  a  word  to  Sarah  even." 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  of  her  locking  you  up  some  day 
or  other?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Grannie  won't  touch  me.  And  you 
shouldn't  tempt  me  to  run  away  from  her  like  auntie.  I 
won't.  Grannie  is  a  naughty  old  lady,  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve anybody  loves  her  but  me — not  Sarah,  I  'm  certain. 
Therefore  I  can't  leave  her,  and  I  won't  leave  her,  Mr 
Walton,  whatever  you  may  say  about  her." 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  want  you  to  leave  her,  Judy." 

And  Judy  did  not  leave  her  as  long  as  she  lived. 
And  the  old  lady's  love  to  that  child  was  at  least  one 
redeeming  point  in  her  fierce  character.  No  one  can 
tell  how  much  good  it  may  have  done  her  before  she 
died — though  but  a  few  years  passed  before  her  soul  was 
required  of  her.  Before  that  time  came,  however,  a 
quarrel  took  place  between  her  and  Sarah,  which  quarrel 
I  incline  to  regard  as  a  hopeful  sign.  And  to  this  day 
Judy  has  never  heard  how  her  old  grannie  treated  her 
wother.     When  she  learns  it  now  from   these  pages  I 


OLD    ROGERS'S    THANKSGIVING.  567 

think  she  will  be  glad  that  she  did  not  know  it  before 
her  death. 

The  old  lady  would  see  neither  doctor  nor  parson ; 
nor  would  she  hear  of  sending  for  her  daughter.  The 
only  sign  of  softening  that  she  gave  was  that  once  she 
folded  her  granddaughter  in  her  arms  and  wept  long  and 
bitterly.  Perhaps  the  thought  of  her  dying  child  came 
back  upon  her,  along  with  the  reflection  that  the  only 
friend  she  had  was  the  child  of  that  marriage  which  slie 
bad  persecuted  to  dissolution. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
tom's  story. 

JY  reader  will  perceive  that  this  part  of  my 
story  is  drawing  to  a  close.  It  embraces 
but  a  brief  period  of  my  life,  and  I  have 
plenty  more  behind  not  altogether  unworthy 
of  record.  But  tlie  portions  of  any  man's  life  most 
generally  interesting  are  those  in  which,  while  the  out-, 
ward  history  is  most  stirring,  it  derives  its  chief  signifi- 
cance from  accompanying  conflict  within.  It  is  not  the 
rapid  change  of  events,  or  the  unusual  concourse  of  cir- 
cumstances that  alone  can  interest  the  thoughtful  mind ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  internal  change  and  tumult 
can  be  ill  set  forth  to  the  reader,  save  they  be  accom- 
panied and  in  part,  at  least,  occasioned  by  outward 
events  capable  of  embodying  and  elucidating  the  things 
that  are  of  themselves  unseen.  For  man's  life  ought  to 
be  a  whole ;  and  not  to  mention  the  spiritual  necessities 
of  our  nature — to  leave  the  far  t  alone  that  a  man  is  a 


Tom's  story.  569 


mere  thing  of  shreds  and  patches  until  his  heart  is  united, 
as  the  Psalmist  says,  to  fear  the  name  of  God — to  leave 
these  considerations  aside,  I  say,  no  man's  life  is  fit  for 
representation  as  a  work  of  art  save  in  proportion  as 
there  has  been  a  significant  relation  between  his  outer 
and  inner  life,  a  visible  outcome  of  some  sort  of  harmony 
between  them.  Therefore  I  chose  the  portion  in  which 
I  had  suffered  most,  and  in  which  the  outward  occur- 
rences of  my  own  life  had  been  most  interesting,  for  the 
-fullest  representation ;  while  I  reserve  for  a  more  occa- 
sional and  fragmentary  record  many  things  in  the  way  of 
experience,  thought,  observation,  and  facts  in  tlie  history 
both  of  myself  and  individuals  of  my  flock,  which  admit 
of,  and  indeed  require,  a  more  individual  treatment  than 
would  be  altogether  suitable  to  a  continuous  story.  But 
before  I  close  this  part  of  my  communications  with  those 
whom  I  count  my  friends,  for  till  they  assure  me  of  the 
contrary  I  mean  to  flatter  myself  with  considering  my 
readers  generally  as  such,  I  must  gather  up  the  ends  of 
my  thread,  and  dispose  them  in  such  a  manner  that  they 
shall  neither  hang  too  loose,  nor  yet  refuse  length  enough 
for  what  my  friend  Rogers  would  call  splicing. 

It  was  yet  summer  when  Miss  Oldcastle  and  I  were 
married.  It  was  to  me  a  day  awful  in  its  gladness.  She 
was  now  quite  well,  and  no  shadow  hung  upon  her  half- 
moon  forehead.  We  went  for  a  fortnight  into  Wales, 
and  then  returned  to  the  vicarage  and  the  duties  of  the 
paiish,  in  which  my  wife  was  quite  ready  to  assist  me. 

Perhaps  it  would  help  the  wives  of  some  clergymen 
out  of  some  difficulties,  and  be  their  protection  against 


570  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

some  reproaches,  if  they  would  at  once  take  the  position 
with  regard  to  the  parishioners  which  Mrs  Walton  took, 
namely,  that  of  their  servant,  but  not  in  her  own  right 
— in  her  husband's.  She  saw,  and  told  them  so,  that 
the  best  thing  she  could  do  for  them  was  to  help  me, 
that  she  held  no  office  whatever  in  the  parish,  and  they 
must  apply  to  me  when  anything  went  amiss.  Had  she 
not  constantly  refused  to  be  a  "  judge,  or  a  divider,"  she 
would  have  been  constantly  troubled  with  quarrels  too 
paltry  to  be  referred  to  me,  and  which  were  the  sooner 
forgotten  that  the  litigants  were  not  drawn  on  further 
and  further  into  the  desert  of  dispute  by  the  mirage  of 
a  justice  that  could  quench  no  thirst.  Only  when  any 
such  affair  was  brought  before  me,  did  she  use  her  good 
offices  to  bring  about  a  right  feeling  between  the  con- 
tending parties,  generally  next-door  neighbours,  and 
mostly  women,  who,  being  at  home  all  day,  found  their 
rights  clash  in  a  manner  that  seldom  happened  with 
those  that  worked  in  the  fields.  Whatever  her  counsel 
could  do,  however,  had  full  scope  through  me,  who 
earnestly  sought  it.  And  whatever  she  gave  the  poor, 
she  gave  as  a  private  person,  out  of  her  own  pocket. 
She  never  administered  the  communion  offering — that 
is,  after  finding  out,  as  she  soon  did,  that  it  was  a 
source  of  endless  dispute  between  some  of  the  recipi- 
ents, who  regarded  it  as  their  common  property,  and 
were  never  satisfied  with  what  they  received.  This  is 
the  case  in  many  country  parishes,  I  fear.  As  soon  as 
I  came  to  know  it,  I  simply  told  the  recipients  that, 
although  the  communion  offering  belonged   to  them. 


Tom's  storv.  571 


yet  the  distribution  of  it  rested  entirely  with  me ;  and 
that  I  would  distribute  it  neither  according  to  their 
fancied  merits  nor  the  degree  of  friendship  I  felt  for 
them,  but  according  to  the  best  judgment  I  could  form 
as  to  their  necessities ;  and  if  any  of  them  thought  these 
were  underrated,  they  were  quite  at  liberty  to  make  a 
fresh  representation  of  them  to  me;  but  that  I,  who 
knew  more  about  their  neighbours  than  it  was  likely 
they  did,  and  was  not  prejudiced  by  the  personal  re- 
gards which  they  could  hardly  fail  to  be  influenced  by, 
was  more  likely  than  they  were  to  arrive  at  an  equitable 
distribution  of  the  money — upon  my  principles  if  not 
on  theirs.  And  at  the  same  time  I  tried  to  show  them 
that  a  very  great  part  of  the  disputes  in  the  world  came 
from  our  having  a  very  keen  feeling  of  our  own  troubles, 
and  a  very  dull  feeling  of  our  neighbour's;  for  if  the 
case  was  reversed,  and  our  neighbour's  condition  be- 
came ours,  ten  to  one  our  judgment  would  be  reversed 
likewise.  And  I  think  some  of  them  got  some  sense 
out  of  what  I  said.  But  I  ever  found  the  great  difficulty 
in  my  dealing  with  my  people  to  be  the  preservation  of 
th  J  authority  which  was  needful  for  service ;  for  when 
the  elder  serve  the  younger — and  in  many  cases  it  is 
not  age  that  determines  seniority — they  must  not  forget 
that  without  which  the  service  they  offer  will  fail  to  be 
received  as  such  by  those  to  wliom  it  is  offered.  At 
the  same  time  they  must  ever  take  heed  that  their 
claim  to  authority  be  founded  on  the  truth,  and  not  on 
ecclesiastical  or  social  position.  Their  standing  in  the 
church  accredits  their  offer  of  service :  the  service  itself 


57*  ANNALS    OP  A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

can  only  be  accredited  by  the  Truth  and  the  Lord  ol 
Truth,  who  is  the  servant  of  all. 

But  it  cost  both  me  and  my  wife  some  time  and  some 
suffering  before  we  learned  how  to  deport  ourselves  in 
these  respects. 

In  the  same  manner  she  avoided  the  too  near,  because 
unprofitable,  approaches  of  a  portion  of  the  richer  part 
of  the  community.  For  from  her  probable  position  in 
time  to  come,  rather  than  her  position  in  time  past, 
many  of  the  fashionable  people  in  the  county  began  to 
call  upon  her — in  no  small  degree  to  her  annoyance, 
simply  from  the  fact  that  she  and  they  had  so  little  in 
common.  So,  while  she  performed  all  towards  them 
that  etiquette  demanded,  she  excused  herself  from  the 
closer  intimacy  which  some  of  them  courted,  on  the 
ground  of  the  many  duties  which  naturally  fell  to  the 
parson's  wife  in  a  country  parish  like  ours ;  and  I  am 
sure  that  long  before  we  had  gained  the  footing  we  now 
have,  we  had  begun  to  reap  the  benefits  of  this  mode  of 
regarding  our  duty  in  the  parish  as  one,  springing  from 
the  same  source,  and  tending  to  the  same  end.  The 
parson's  wife  who  takes  to  herself  authority  in  virtue  of 
her  position,  and  the  parson's  wife  who  disclaims  all  con- 
nexion with  the  professional  work  of  her  husband,  are 
equally  out  of  place  in  being  parsons'  wives.  The  one 
who  refuses  to  serve  denies  her  greatest  privilege ;  the  one 
who  will  be  a  mistress  receives  the  greater  condemnation. 
When  the  wife  is  one  with  her  husband,  and  the  husband 
is  worthy,  the  position  will  soon  reveal  itself. 

But  there  cannot  be  many  clergymen's  wives  amongst 


tom's  story.  573 

my  readers ;  and  I  may  have  occupied  more  space  than 
reasonable  with  this  "  large  discourse."  I  apologize^ 
tnd,  there  is  room  to  fear,  go  on  to  do  the  same  again. 

As  I  write  I  am  seated  in  that  little  octagonal  room 
overlooking  the  quarry,  with  its  green  lining  of  trees, 
and  its  deep  central  well.  It  is  mj  study  now.  My 
wife  is  not  yet  too  old  to  prefer  the  httle  room  in  which 
she  thought  and  suffered  so  much,  to  every  other, 
although  the  •  stair  that  leads  to  it  is  high  and  steep. 
Nor  do  I  object  to  her  preference  because  there  is  no 
ready  way  to  reach  it  save  through  this  :  I  see  her  the 
oftener.  And  although  I  do  not  like  any  one  to  look 
over  my  shoulder  while  I  write — it  disconcerts  me  some- 
how— ^yet  the  moment  the  sheet  is  finished  and  flung  on 
the  heap,  it  is  her  property,  as  the  print,  reader,  is  yours. 
I  hear  her  step  overhead  now.  She  is  opening  her  win- 
dow. Now  I  hear  her  door  close;  and  now  her  foot  is 
on  the  stair. 

"  Come  in,  love.  I  have  just  finished  another  sheet. 
There  it  is.  What  shall  I  end  the  book  with  1  What 
shall  I  tell  the  friends  with  whom  I  have  been  convers- 
ing so  often  and  so  long  for  the  last  thing  ere  for  a  little 
while  I  bid  them  good-bye  ] " 

And  Ethelwyn  bends  her  smooth  forehead — for  she 
has  a  smooth  forehead  still,  although  the  hair  that  crowns 
it  is  almost  white — over  the  last  few  sheets ;  and  while 
she  reals,  I  will  tell  those  who  will  read,  one  of  the 
good  things  that  come  of  being  married.  It  is,  that 
there  is  one  face  upon  which  the  changes  come  without 
your  seeing  them ;  or  rather,  there  is  one  face  which  you 


574  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

can  still  see  the  same  through  all  the  shadows  which 
years  have  gathered  and  heaped  upon  it.  No,  stay;  I 
have  got  a  better  way  of  putting  it  still :  there  is  one 
face  whose  final  beauty  you  can  see  the  more  clearly  as 
the  bloom  of  youth  departs,  and  the  loveliness  of  wisdom 
and  the  beauty  of  holiness  take  its  place ;  for  in  it  you 
behold  all  that  you  loved  before,  veiled,  it  is  true,  but 
glowing  with  gathered  brilliance  under  the  veil  ("  Stop 
one  moment,  my  dear")  from  which  it  will  one  day 
shine  out  like  the  moon  from  under  a  cloud,  when  a 
stream  of  the  upper  air  floats  it  from  off  her  face. 

"  Now,  Ethelwyn,  I  am  ready.  What  shall  I  write 
about  next  ? " 

**  I  don't  think  you  have  told  them  anywhere  about 
Tom." 

"  No  more  I  have.  I  meant  to  do  so.  But  I  am 
ashamed  of  it." 

"  The  more  reason  to  tell  it." 

"  You  are  quite  right.  I  will  go  on  with  it  at  once. 
But  you  must  not  stand  there  behind  me.  When  I  was 
a  child,  I  could  always  confess  best  when  I  hid  my  face 
with  my  hands." 

'*  Besides,"  said  Ethelwyn,  without  seeming  to  hear 
what  I  said,  "  I  do  not  want  to  have  people  saying  that 
the  vicar  has  made  himself  out  so  good  that  nobody 
can  believe  in  him." 

*•  That  would  be  a  great  fault  in  my  book,  Ethelwyn. 
What  does  it  come  from  in  me  1  Let  me  see.  I  do  not 
think  I  want  to  appear  better  than  I  am ;  but  it  sounds 
hypocritical  to  make  merely  general  confessions,  and  it 


TOM'S    STORV.  575 


is  indecorous  to  make  particular  ones.  Besides,  I  doubt 
if  it  is  good  to  write  much  about  bad  things  even  in  the 
way  of  confession " 

"  Well,  well,  never  mind  justifying  it,"  said  Ethelwyn. 
"  /  don't  want  any  justification.  But  here  is  a  chance 
for  you.  The  story  will,  I  think,  do  good,  and  not  harm. 
You  had  better  tell  it,  I  do  think.  So  if  you  are  inclined, 
I  will  go  away  at  once,  and  let  you  go  on  without  inter- 
ruption. You  will  have  it  finished  before  dinner,  and 
Tom  is  coming,  and  you  can  tell  him  what  you  have 
done." 

So,  reader,  now  my  wife  has  left  me,  I  will  begin.  It 
shall  not  be  a  long  story. 

As  soon  as  my  wife  and  I  had  settled  down  at  home, 
and  I  had  begun  to  arrange  my  work  again,  it  came  to 
my  mind  that  for  a  long  time  I  had  been  doing  very 
little  for  Tom  Weir.  I  could  not  blame  myself  much 
for  this,  and  I  was  pretty  sure  neither  he  nor  his  father 
blamed  me  at  all ;  but  I  now  saw  that  it  was  time  we 
should  recommence  something  definite  in  the  way  of 
study.  When  he  came  to  my  house  the  next  morning, 
and  I  proceeded  to  acquaint  myself  with  what  he  had 
been  doing,  I  found  to  my  great  pleasure  that  he  had 
made  very  considerable  progress  both  in  Latin  and 
Mathematics,  and  I  resolved  that  I  would  now  push  him 
a  little.  I  found  this  only  brought  out  his  mettle  ;  and 
his  progress,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  was  extraordinary. 
Nor  was  this  all.  There  were  such  growing  signs  of 
goodness  in  addition  to  the  uprightness  which  had  first 
led  to  our  acquaintance,  that  although  I  carefully  ab- 


576  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

stained  from  making  the  suggestion  to  him,  I  was  mor? 
than  pleased  when  I  discovered,  from  some  remark  h' 
made,  that  he  would  gladly  give  himself  to  the  servio 
of  the  Church,  At  the  same  time  I  felt  compelled  to  be 
the  more  cautious  in  anything  I  said,  from  the  fact  that 
the  prospect  of  the  social  elevation  which  would  be  in- 
volved in  the  change  might  be  a  temptation  to  him,  as 
no  doubt  it  has  been  to  many  a  man  of  humble  birth. 
However,  as  I  continued  to  observe  him  closely,  my 
conviction  was  deepened  that  he  was  rarely  fitted  for 
ministering  to  his  fellows ;  and  soon  it  came  to  speech 
between  his  father  and  me,  when  I  found  that  Thomas, 
so  far  from  being  unfavourably  inclined  to  the  proposal, 
was  prepared  to  spend  the  few  savings  of  his  careful  life 
upon  his  education.  To  this,  however,  I  could  not  lis- 
ten, because  there  was  his  daughter  Mary,  who  was  very 
delicate,  and  his  grandchild  too,  for  whom  he  ought  to 
make  what  littk  provision  he  could.  I  therefore  took 
the  matter  in  my  own  hands,  and  by  means  of  a  judicious 
combination  of  experience  and  what  money  I  could  spare, 
I  managed,  at  less  expense  than  most  parents  suppose 
to  be  unavoidable,  to  maintain  my  young  friend  at  Ox- 
ford till  such  time  as  he  gained  a  fellowship.  I  felt  jus- 
tified in  doing  so  in  part  from  the  fact  that  some  day  or 
other  Mrs  Walton  would  inherit  the  Oldcastle  property, 
as  well  as  come  into  possession  of  certain  moneys  of 
her  own,  now  in  the  trust  of  her  mother  and  two  gentle- 
men in  London,  which  would  be  nearly  sufficient  to  free 
the  estate  from  incumbrance,  although  she  could  not 
touch  it  as  long  as  her  mother  livf'd  and  chose  to  refuse 


TOM  S    STORV.  577 


her  the  use  of  it,  at  least  without  a  law-suit,  with  which 

neither  of  us  was  inclined  to  have  anything  to  do.     But 

I  did  not  lose  a  penny  by  the  affair.     For  of  the  very 

first  money  Tom  received  after  he  had  got  his  fellowshij), 

he  brought  the  half  to  me,  and  continued  to  do  so  until 

he  had  repaid  me  every  shiUing  I  had  spent  upon  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  deacon's  orders,  he  came  to  assist 

me  for  a  while  as  curate,  and  I  found  him  a  great  help 

and  comfort.     He  occupied  the  large  room  over  his 

father's  shop  which  had  been  his  grandfather's :  he  had 

been  dead  for  some  years. 

I  was  now  engaged  on  a  work  which   I  had  been 

contemplating  for  a  long  time,  upon  the  development 

of  the  love  of  Nature  as  shown  in  the  earlier  literature 

of  the  Jews  and  Graeks,  through  that  of  the  Romans, 

Italians,  and  other  nations,  with  the  Anglo-Saxon  for 

a   fresh   starting-point,  into  its    latest   forms    in   Gray, 

Thomson,  Cowper,   Crabbe,  Wordsworth,    Keats,   and 

Tennyson;   and  Tom  supplied  me  with  much  of  the 

time  which   I  bestowed  upon  this  object,  and  I  was 

really  grateful  to  him.     But,  in  looking  back,  and  trying 

to  account  to  myself  for  the  snare  into  which  I  fell,  I 

see  plainly  enough  that  I  thought  too  much  of  what  I 

had  done  for  Tom,  and  too  httle  of  the  honour  Go, I 

had  done  me  in  allowing  me  to  help  Tom.     I  took  the 

high-da'i's-throne  over  him,  not  consciously,  I  believe, 

but    still   with   a   contemptible   condescension,   not  of 

manner  but  of  heart,  so  delicately  refined  by  the  innate 

«c])histry  of  my  selfishness,  that  the  better  nature  in  me 

called  it  only  fatherly  friendship,  and  did  not  recognize 

2  o 


573  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

it  as  that  abominable  thing  so  favoured  of  all  those  thai 
especially  worship  themselves.  But  I  abuse  my  fault 
instead  of  confessing  it. 

One  evening,  a  gentle  tap  came  to  my  door,  and 
Tom  entered.  He  looked  pale  and  anxious,  aiid  theie 
was  an  uncertainty  about  his  motions  which  I  could  not 
understand- 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Tom  ? "  I  asked. 

*'  I  wanted  to  say  something  to  you,  sir,"  answered 
Tom. 

"  Say  on,"  I  returned,  cheerily. 

"  It  is  not  so  easy  to  say,  sir,"  rejoined  Tom,  with  a 
faint  smile.     "  Miss  Walton,  sir " 

"  Well,  what  of  her  ]  There 's  nothing  happened  to 
her  1  She  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago — though,  now  I 
think  of  it " 

Here  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  flashed  on  me,  and 
struck  me  dumb.  I  am  now  covered  with  shame  to 
think  how,  when  the  thing  approached  myself  on  that 
side,  it  swept  away  for  the  moment  all  my  fine  theories 
about  the  equality  of  men  in  Christ  their  Head.  How 
could  Tom  Weir,  whose  father  was  a  joiner,  who  had 
been  a  lad  in  a  London  shop  himself,  dare  to  propose 
marrying  my  sister?  Instead  of  thinking  of  what  he 
really  was,  my  regard  rested  upon  this  and  that  stage 
through  which  he  had  pa'ssed  to  reach  his  present  con- 
ilition.  In  fact,  I  regarded  him  rather  as  of  my  making 
than  of  God's. 

Perhaps  it  might  do  something  to  modify  the  scorn 
of  all  classes  for  those  beneath  them,  to  consider  that, 


Tom's  story.  579 


b)'  regarding  others  thus,  they  justify  those  above  thern 
in  looking  down  upon  them  in  their  turn.  In  London 
shops,  I  am  credibly  informed,  the  young  women  who 
seive  in  the  show-rooms,  or  behind  the  counters,  are 
called  Jadies,  and  talk  of  the  girls  who  make  up  the 
articles  for  sale  as  persons.  To  the  learned  professions, 
however,  the  distinction  between  the  shopwomen  and 
milliners  is,  from  their  superior  height,  unrecognizable ; 
while  doctors  and  lawyers  are  again,  I  doubt  not,  massed 
by  countesses  and  other  blue-blooded  realities,  with  the 
literary  lions  who  roar  at  soirees  and  kettle-drums,  or 
even  with  chiropodists  and  violin-players  I  But  I  am 
growing  scornful  at  scorn,  and  forget  that  I  too  have 
been  scornful.  Brothers,  sisters,  all  good  men  and  true 
women,  let  the  Master  seat  us  where  He  will.  Until 
he  says,  "  Come  up  higher,"  let  us  sit  at  the  foot  of  the 
board,  or  stand  behind,  honoured  in  waiting  upon  His 
guests.  All  that  kind  of  thing  is  worth  nothing  in  the 
kingdom ;  and  nothing  will  be  remembered  of  us  but 
the  Master's  judgment 

I  have  known  a  good  churchwoman  who  would  be 
sweet  as  a  sister  to  the  abject  poor,  but  offensively 
condescending  to-  a  shopkeeper  or  a  dissenter,  exactly 
as  if  he  was  a  Pariah,  and  she  a  Brahmin.  I  have 
uiiown  good  people  who  were  noble  and  generous  to- 
. wards  their  so-called  inferiors  and  full  of  the  rights  of 
the  race — until  it  touched  their  own  family,  and  just 
no  longer.  Yea  I,  who  had  talked  like  this  for  years, 
at  once,  when  Tom  Weir  wanted  to  marry  my  sister, 
lost  my  faith  in  the  broad  lines  of  human  distinction. 


580  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

judged  according  to  appearances  in  which  I  did  no* 
even  believe,  and  judged  not  righteous  judgment. 

"  For,"  reasoned  the  world  in  me,  "  is  it  not  too  bad 
to  drag  your  wife  in  for  such  an  alliance]  Has  she 
not  lowered  herself  enough  already  1  Has  she  not 
married  far  below  her  accredited  position  in  society] 
Will  she  not  feel  injured  by  your  family  if  she  see  it 
capable  of  forming  such  a  connexion]" 

What  answer  I  returned  to  Tom  I  hardly  know.  I 
remember  that  the  poor  fellow's  face  fell,  and  that  he 
murmured  something  which  I  did  not  heed.  And  then 
I  found  myself  walking  in  the  garden  under  the  great 
cedar,  having  stepped  out  of  the  window  almost  uncon- 
sciously, and  left  Tom  standing  there  alone.  It  was 
very  good  of  him  ever  to  forgive  me. 

Wandering  about  in  the  garden,  my  wife  saw  me 
from  her  window,  and  met  me  as  I  turned  a  corner  in 
the  shrubbery. 

And  now  I  am  going  to  have  my  revenge  upon  her 
in  a  way  she  does  not  expect,  for  making  me  tell  the 
story  :  I  will  tell  her  share  in  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Henry  ]  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  not  much,"  I  answered.  "  Only  that  Weir  has 
been  making  me  rather  uncomfortable." 

"  What  has  he  been  doing  ] "  she  inquired,  in  some 
alarm.  "  It  is  not  possible  he  has  done  anything 
wrong." 

My  wife  trusted  him  as  much  as  I  did. 

"  No — o — o,"  I  answered.  "  Npt  anything  exactly 
wrong." 


TOM'S    STORY.  581 


"  It  must  be  very  nearly  wrong,  Henry,  to  make  you 
look  so  miserable." 

I  began  to  feel  ashamed  and  more  uncomfortable. 

"He  has  been  falling  in  love  with  Martha,"  I  said: 
"  and  when  I  put  one  thing  to  another,  I  fear  he  may 
have  made  her  fall  in  love  with  him  too."  My  wife 
laughed  merrily. 

*'  What  a  wicked  curate  ! " 

"  Well,  but  yoti  know  it  is  not  exactly  agreeable." 

"Why?" 

"  You  know  why  weil  enough."  * 

"  At  least,  I  am  not  going  to  take  it  for  granted.  Is 
he  not  a  good  man  ] " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  not  a  well-educated  man  1 " 

*'  As  well  as  myself — for  his  years." 

"  Is  he  not  clever  ] " 

"  One  of  the  cleverest  fellows  I  ever  met" 

"  Is  he  not  a  gentleman?" 

"  I  have  not  a  fault  to  find  with  his  manners." 

"  Nor  with  his  habits  ? "  my  wife  went  on. 

"No." 

"  Nor  with  his  ways  of  thinking  ? " 

"  No  — But,  Ethelwyn,  you  know  what  I  mean  quite 
well.     His  family,  you  know," 

"  Well,  is  his  father  not  a  respectable  man  1 " 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly.     Thoroughly  respectable." 

"  He  wouldn't  borrow  money  of  his  tailor  instead  of 
paying  for  his  clothes,  would  het" 

"  Certainly  not" 


$82  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

"  And  if  he  were  to  die  to-day  he  would  carry  no  debts 
to  heaven  with  him  1 " 

"  I  beheve  not." 

"  Does  he  bear  false  witness  against  his  neighbour  ? " 

"  No.  He  scorns  a  lie  as  much  as  any  man  I  evei 
knew." 

"  Which  of  the  commandments  is  it  in  particular  that 
he  breaks,  tlien  1 " 

"  None  that  I  know  of;  excepting  that  no  one  can 
keep  them  yet  that  is  only  human.  He  tries  to  keep 
every  one  of  them  I  do  believe." 

"  Well,  I  think  Tom  very  fortunate  in  having  such  a 
father.     I  wish  my  mother  had  been  as  good." 

"  That  is  all  true,  and  yet " 

"  And  yet,  suppose  a  young  man  you  liked  had  had  a 
fashionable  father  who  had  ruined  half  a  score  of  trades- 
people by  his  extravagance — would  you  object  to  hira 
because  of  his  family  ] " 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  Then,  with  you,  position  outweighs  honesty — in 
fathers,  at  least." 

To  this  I  was  not  ready  with  an  answer,  and  my  wife 
went  on. 

"  It  might  be  reasonable  if  you  did  though,  from  fear 
lest  he  should  turn  out  like  his  father. — But  do  you  know 
why  I  would  not  accept  your  offer  of  taking  my  name 
when  I  should  succeed  to  the  property  1 " 

**  You  said  you  liked  mine  better,"  I  answered. 

"  So  I  did.  But  I  did  not  tell  you  that  I  was  ashamed 
that  my  good  husband  should  take  a  name  which  for 


TOM'S    STORY.  __  583 


centuries  had  been  borne  by  hard-hearted,  worldly 
minded  people,  who,  to  speak  the  truth  of  my  ancestors 
to  my  husband,  were  neither  gentle  nor  honest,  nor 
high-minded." 

"  Still,  Ethelwyn,  you  know  there  is  something  in  it, 
though  it  is  not  so  easy  to  say  what.  And  you  avoid  that. 
I  suppose  Martha  has  been  talking  you  over  to  her  side." 

"  Harry,"  my  wife  said,  with  a  shade  of  solemnity,  "  I 
am  almost  ashamed  of  you  for  the  first  time.  And  I  will 
punish  you  by  telling  you  the  truth.  Do  you  think  I 
had  nothing  of  that  sort  to  get  over  when  I  began  to 
find  that  I  was  thinking  a  little  more  about  you  than  was 
quite  convenient  under  the  circumstances  1  Your  man- 
ners, dear  Harry,  though  irreproachable,  just  had  not  the 
tone  that  I  had  been  accustomed  to.  There  was  a  diffi- 
dence about  you  also  that  did  not  at  first  advance  you 
in  my  regard." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  answered,  a  little  piqued,  "  I  dare  say. 
I  have  no  doubt  you  thought  me  a  boor." 

«  Dear  Harry  1 " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  wifie.  I  know  you  didn't.  But 
it  is  quite  bad  enough  to  have  brought  you  down  to  my 
level,  without  sinking  you  still  lower.'' 

"  Now  there  you  are  wrong,  Harry.  And  that  is  what 
I  want  to  show  you.  I  found  that  my  love  to  you  would 
not  be  satisfied  with  making  an  exception  in  your  favour. 
1  must  see  what  force  there  ideally  was  in  the  notions  I 
had  been  bred  in." 

"  Ah  ! "  I  said.  "  I  see.  You  looked  for  a  principle 
in  what  you  had  thought  was  an  exception." 


584  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

n 

"  Yes,"  returned  my  wife ;  "  and  I  soon  found  one. 
And  the  next  step  was  to  throw  away  all  false  judgment 
in  regard  to  such  things.  And  so  I  can  see  more  clearly 
than  you  into  the  right  of  the  matter. — Would  you  hcsi 
tate  a  moment  between  Tom  Weir  and  the  dissolute  son 
of  an  earl,  Harry  ] " 

"  You  know  I  would  not." 

"  Well,  just  carry  out  the  considerations  that  suggests, 
and  you  will  find  that  where  there  is  everything  per- 
sonally noble,  pure,  simple,  and  good,  the  lowliness  of  a 
man's  birth  is  but  an  added  honour  to  him ;  for  it  shows 
that  his  nobility  is  altogether  from  within  hi.m,  and 
therefore  is  his  own.  It  cannot  then  have  been  put  on 
him  by  education  or  imitation,  as  many  men's  manners 
are,  who  wear  their  good  breeding  like  their  fine  clothes, 
or  as  the  Pharisee  his  prayers,  to  be  seen  of  men." 

"But  his  sister t" 

"  Harry,  Harry !  You  were  preaching  last  Sunday 
about  the  way  God  thinks  of  things.  And  you  said  that 
was  the  only  true  way  of  thinking  about  them.  Would 
the  Mary  that  poured  the  ointment  on  Jesus's  head  have 
refused  to  marry  a  good  man  because  he  was  the  brother 
of  that  Mary  who  poured  it  on  His  feet  ?  Have  you 
thought  what  God  would  think  of  Tom  for  a  husband  to 
Martha  V 

I  did  not  answer,  for  conscience  had  begun  to  speak. 
When  I  lifted  my  eyes  from  the  ground,  thinking  Ethel 
wyn  stood  beside  me,  she  was  gone.  I  felt  as  if  she 
were  dead,  to  punish  me  for  my  pride.  But  still  I  could 
uot  get  over  it,  though  I  was  ashamed  to  follow  and 


Tom's  story.  585 


find  her.  I  went  and  got  my  hat  instead,  and  strolled 
out. 

What  was  it  that  drew  me  towards  Thomas  Weir's 
shop?  I  think  it  must  have  been  incipient  repentance 
— a  feeling  that  I  had  wronged  the  man.  But  just  as  I 
turned  the  corner,  and  the  smell  of  the  wood  reached 
me,  the  picture  so  often  associated  in  my  mind  with  such 
a  scene  of  human  labour,  rose  before  me.  I  saw  the 
Lord  of  Life  bending  over  His  bench,  fashioning  some 
lowly  utensil  for  some  housewife  of  Nazareth.  And  He 
would  receive  payment  for  it  too ;  for  He  at  least  could 
see  no  disgrace  in  the  order  of  things  that  His  Father 
had  appointed.  It  is  the  vulgar  mind  that  looks  down 
on  the  earning  and  worships  the  inheriting  of  money. 
How  infinitely  more  poetic  is  the  belief  that  our  Lord 
did  His  work  like  any  other  honest  man,  than  that  strain- 
ing after  His  glorification  in  the  early  centuries  of  the 
Church  by  the  invention  of  fables  even  to  the  disgrace 
of  his  father  !  They  say  that  Joseph  was  a  bad  carpen- 
ter, and  our  Lord  had  to  work  miracles  to  set  the  things 
right  which  he  had  made  wrong !  To  such  a  class  of 
mind  as  invented  these  fables  do  those  belong  who  think 
they  honour  our  Lord  when  they  judge  anything  human 
too  common  or  too  unclean  for  Him  to  have  done. 

And  the  thought  sprung  up  at  once  in  my  mind — **  If 
I  ever  see  our  Lord  fiice  to  face,  how  shall  I  feel  if  He 
says  to  me,  '  Didst  thou  do  vvell  to  murmur  that  thy 
sister  espoused  a  certain  man  for  that  in  his  youth  he 
had  earned  his  bread  as  I  earned  mine  ?  Where  was 
then  thy  riglxt  to  say  unto  me,  Lord,  Lord  1 ' " 


586  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I  hurried  into  the  workshop. 

**  Has  Tom  told  you  about  it  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir.  And  I  told  him  to  mind  what  he  was 
about ;  for  he  was  not  a  gentleman,  and  you  was,  sir." 

"  I  hope  I  am.  And  Tom  is  as  much  a  gentleman  as 
I  have  any  claim  to  be." 

Thomas  Weir  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Now,  sir,  I  do  believe  you  mean  in  ray  shop  what 
you  say  in  your  pulpit ;  and  there  is  one  Christian  in  the 
world  at  least. — But  what  will  your  good  lady  say  %  She 's 
higher-bom  than  you — no  offence,  sir." 

"  Ah,  Thomas,  you  shame  me.  lam  not  so  good  as 
you  think  me.  It  was  my  wife  that  brought  me  to  reason 
about  it." 

"  God  bless  her." 

"  Amen.     I  'm  going  to  find  Tom." 

At  the  same  moment  Tom  entered  the  shop,  with  a 
very  melancholy  face.  He  started  when  he  saw  me,  and 
looked  confused. 

*'  Tom,  my  boy,"  I  said,  "  I  behaved  very  badly  to 
you.  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Come  back  with  me,  and  have 
a  walk  with  my  sister.  I  don't  think  she  '11  be  sorry  to 
see  you." 

His  face  brightened  up  at  once,  and  we  left  the  shop 
together.  Evidently  with  a  great  effort  Tom  was  the 
fiist  to  speak. 

"  I  know,  sir,  how  many  difficulties  my  presumption 
must  put  you  in." 

"  Not  another  word  about  it,  Tom.  You  are  blame- 
less.    I  wish  I  were.     If  we  only  act  as  God  would  have 


Tom's  story.  587 


us,  other  considerations  may  look  after  themselves — or, 
rather,  He  will  look  after  them.  The  world  will  never 
be  right  till  the  mind  of  God  is  the  measure  of  things, 
and  the  will  of  God  the  law  of  things.  In  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven  nothing  else  is  acknowledged.  And  till  that 
kingdom  come,  the  mind  and  will  of  God  must,  with 
those  that  look  for  that  kingdom,  over-ride  every  other 
way  of  thinking,  feeling,  and  judging.  I  see  it  more 
plainly  tlian  ever  I  did.  Take  my  sister,  in  God's  name, 
Tom,  and  be  good  to  her." 

Tom  went  to  find  Martha,  and  I  to  find  Ethelwyn. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  I  said,  "  even  to  the  shame  I  feel  at 
having  needed  your  reproof." 

"  Don't  think  of  that.  God  gives  us  all  time  to  come 
to  our  right  minds,  you  know,"  answered  my  wife. 

"  But  how  did  you  get  on  so  far  a-head  of  me,  wifie  1 " 

Ethelwyn  laughed. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  I  only  told  you  back  again  what 
you  have  been  telling  me  for  the  last  seven  or  eight 
years." 

So  to  me  the  message  had  come  first,  but  my  wife  had 
answered  first  with  the  deed. 

And  now  I  have  had  my  revenge  on  her. 

Next  to  her  and  my  children,  Tom  has  been  my  great- 
est comfort  for  many  years.  He  is  still  my  curate,  and 
I  do  not  think  we  shall  part  till  death  part  us  for  a  time. 
My  sister  is  worth  twice  what  she  was  before,  though 
they  have  no  children.  We  have  many,  and  they  have 
taught  me  much. 

Thomas  Weir  is  now  too  old  to  work  any  longer.    Ho 


588  ANNALS    OF    A    QtTIET    N  EIG  H  BO  J  RHOOD. 

occupies  his  father's  chair  in  the  large  room  of  the  old 
house.  The  workshop  I  have  liad  turned  into  a  scliool- 
room,  of  the  external  condition  of  which  his  daiightei 
takes  good  care,  while  a  great  part  of  her  brother  Tom's 
time  is  devoted  to  the  children ;  for  he  and  I  agree  that, 
where  it  can  be  done,  the  pastoral  care  ought  to  be  at 
least  equally  divided  between  the  sheep  and  the  lambs. 
For  the  sooner  the  children  are  brought  under  right  in- 
fluences— I  do  not  mean  a  great  deal  of  religious  speech, 
but  the  right  influences  of  truth  and  honesty,  and  an  evi- 
dent regard  to  whait  God  wants  of  us — not  only  are  they 
the  more  easily  wrought  upon,  but  the  sooner  do  they 
recognize  those  influences  as  right  and  good.  And 
while  Tom  quite  agrees  with  me  that  there  must  not  be 
much  talk  about  religion,  he  thinks  that  there  must  be 
just  the  more  acting  upon  religion ;  and  that  if  it  be 
everywhere  at  hand  in  all  things  taught  and  done,  it  will 
be  ready  to  show  itself  to  every  one  who  looks  for  it. 
And  besides  that  action  is  more  powerful  than  speech 
in  the  inculcation  of  religion,  Tom  says  there  is  no  such 
corrective  of  sectarianism  of  every  kind  as  the  repression 
of  speech  and  the  encouragement  of  action. 

Besides  being  a  great  help  to  me  and  everybody  else 
almost  in  Marshmallows,  Tom  has  distinguished  himself 
in  the  literary  world ;  and  when  I  read  his  books  I  am 
vet  prouder  of  my  brother-in-law.  I  am  only  afraid  that 
Martha  is  not  good  enough  for  him.  But  she  certainly 
improves,  as  I  have  said  already. 

Jane  Rogers  was  married  to  young  Brownrigg  about  a 
year  after  we  were  married.     The  old  man  is  all  but 


Tom's  story.  589 


confined  to  the  chimney-corner  now,  and  Richard  man* 
ages  the  farm,  though  not  quite  to  his  father's  satisfac- 
tion, of  course.  But  they  are  doing  well  notwithstand- 
ing. The  old  mill  has  been  superseded  by  one  of  new 
and  rare  device,  built  bv  Richard ;  but  the  old  cottage 
where  his  wife's  parents  uvea  nas  slowly  mouldered  back 
to  the  dust. 

For  the  old  people  have  been  dead  for  many  years. 
Often  in  the  summer  days  as  I  go  to  or  come  from  the 
vestry,  I  sit  down  for  a  moment  on  the  turf  that  covers 
my  old  friend,  and  think  that  every  day  is  mouldering 
away  this  body  of  mine  till  it  shall  fall  a  heap  of  dust 
into  its  appointed  place.  But  what  is  that  to  me  1  It  is 
to  me  the  drawing  nigh  of  the  fresh  morning  of  life, 
when  I  shall  be  young  and  strong  again,  glad  in  the 
presence  of  the  wise  and  beloved  dead,  and  unspeakably 
glad  in  the  presence  of  my  God,  which  I  have  now  but 
hope  to  possess  far  more  hereafter. 

I  will  not  take  a  solemn  leave  of  my  friends  just  yet. 
For  I  hope  to  hold  a  little  more  communion  with  them 
ere  I  go  hence.  I  know  that  my  mental  faculty  is  grow- 
ing weaker,  but  some  power  yet  remains ;  and  I  say  to 
myself,  "  Perhaps  this  is  the  final  trial  of  your  faith — to 
trust  in  God  to  take  care  of  your  intellect  for  you,  and 
to  believe,  in  weakness,  the  truths  He  revealed  to  you 
in  strength.  Remember  that  Truth 'depends  not  upon 
your  seeing  it,  and  believe  as  you  saw  when  your  sight 
was  at  its  best,  ^or  then  you  saw  that  the  Truth  was 
beyond  all  you  could  see."     Thus  I  try  to  prepare  for 


X'd^tg'cS 


590  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

dark  days  that  may  come,  but  which  cannot  come  with* 
out  God  in  them. 

And  meantime  I  hope  to  be  able  to  communicate 
some  more  of  the  good  things  experience  and  thought 
have  taught  me,  and  it  may  be  some  more  of  the  events 
that  have  befallen  my  friends  and  myself  in  our  pilgrim- 
age. So,  kind  readers,  God  be  with  you.  TtiaJt  is  the 
older  and  better  form  of  Gaod-bye. 


